


The Pirate Queen

by meisie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Arguing, Brooding, Dress Up, F/M, Giant lizards, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, Mild Kink, Pirates, Porn for girls with imaginations, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Skinny Dipping, Sword Fighting, The Royal Navy, a sword belt, alternative boatsex, alternative universe, battles at sea, costume porn, excuse to write summer, fandom salt, house with red door but mango tree instead, inadequate knowledge of ships, lots of exotic locales, masculine adventures, minor GOT characters mentioned, pirate island lair, pirate queen kicks ass and takes names, precious bean, pure mischief, stroppy romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-03-26 00:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: In which Lord Commander Snow meets The Pirate Queen and her crew of cutthroats, much to his annoyance and later delight. AU, 18th Century Caribbean setting, pirates, scenery, bad jokes, canon winks, Jon in a pretty uniform (and eventually a dashing pirate outfit), and shameless smut. I got nothing else, enjoy.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashleyfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfanfic/gifts).



 

 

_A/N: Here we go, my first attempt at an AU. Dedicated to **Ashleyfanfic** , who is fond of pirates and was most insistent I do this. Late 18th Century Caribbean setting, shifting point of view, and smut of course. Obvious from the title who is leading the pirates and causing mayhem, because girls rule the world. Enjoy as much as I did writing it. Thanks for reading!_

_Aesthetic/moodboard kindly provided by the lovely **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

It was at low moments like this that he had to fight hard not to sink into melancholy at the direction his life had taken.

A fierce tempest had taken them by surprise off the coast of Hispanola, the wind and driving rain splitting the fleet apart like a child’s set of toy boats. One here, one there, lost into the howling dark, leaving the flagship spinning about uselessly as the crew cursed and struggled to bring down the sails before the mainmast snapped like kindling. For two days the storm raged around them, making all hands fractious and ill and disorientated, and then perfect calm descended, the treacherous ocean as flat as a millpond, the searing tropic sun burning pasty English and Scots skins and causing sweat to pop and stream down harried, tired faces.

The heat was so unpleasant he was severely tempted to shed his officer’s coat, stock and hat and move about up top as unburdened as the sailors, but alas it wasn’t fitting for the Commander to be seen dishevelled. Only in the privacy of his cabin could he peel off his layers and lie uncomfortable and slick with sweat on his narrow bed, ignoring the call of the decanter of whisky on the shelf. Drunken oblivion was not the answer, though most of his men seem to think it was.

As night fell quickly as it always did in these foul climes, and the temperature dropped a little, he donned his coat and tricorne and went up top to brood at the canopy of stars and flat inky ocean instead of four wooden walls, trying to count his blessings to subdue his growing disquiet over the storm’s results, and ever-present misery at his plight. He was as trapped as any pressganged steward or cabin boy, just more finely dressed, and with better manners and language.

He had the upbringing of a gentleman, though cold and grudging thanks to his father’s wife, the mother of his half brothers and sisters. The comfortable life of a rustic lord’s son in the Yorkshire Dales and a good education from the local curate, but as he neared manhood it became evident Lady Stark’s limits of tolerance had been reached. With his father away serving in Parliament, and no spare money to send him to Oxford with Robb, he had reluctantly accepted his uncle’s offer of a commission in the Royal Navy, which was a life sentence unless one had the means or connections to escape. It was about as much as a bastard son of a lord could expect, so he had served dutifully, moving quickly up the ranks despite his mixed parentage and the soft northern burr of his speech, out of place among the other officers.

He had been all over the world, posted in places both beautiful and vile, never entirely adjusting to the hot climate of the colonies. When he had returned to Portsmouth to be reassigned he had been proud to be granted a small fleet and rank of Commander, but the mission itself was less welcome. The Reverend who had charge of his schooling had been a strong abolitionist, so it pained him to be assigned to protect the slave shipping lanes in the West Indies. A despicable trade in human misery, in terrible conditions with brutal treatment he had no wish to enable, or see up close. His sense of being trapped in a role he was never much enthused about had tightened around him like a steel cage.

For six months he had been in a wild goose chase from Bermuda to Cuba on the hunt for a pack of marauding pirates, who had inexplicably begun to attack slavers and free the unfortunate victims instead of pursuing the usual loot of Spanish silver and other rich pickings. So far, they had found no real trace of the notorious pirate known only as Dany, or his three ships and crew of cutthroats and former slaves, only wild rumours of their cunning methods of ambush, of a mythical island where the slaves were set loose, and of fierce sword fights by moonlight on the decks of stinking slave ships.

There were even ridiculous reports that this Dany was in fact a beautiful woman, which he had snorted at in disbelief. Woman or not, the attacks were creating great disorder and outrage among the greedy planters of Barbados and Jamaica, so much as he disliked the duty, he carried it out to the best of his abilities, which were lacking at present. They were clearly lost, only open blank sea in every direction, not enough wind as yet to pick up speed and find a useful landmark, the star charts having been mislaid by his bumbling Steward Walters. They were running low on water, and the food stores were scanty. Without a good gale from the south they would be in travail in a matter of days.

The deck rocked a little beneath his boots, and there was a flap and crack from the sails that had been re-hoisted in hope, and he reached for the handrail to right himself. Peering absently into the deeps he thought of sharks and submerged reefs, whales and other dangers hidden beneath. During the daylight hours when he had time to stand and enjoy the view of the turquoise waters and white sand islets dotted with waving palms, the curious bright corals, and their swarming iridescent fish, he would wish he could glide across the surface like a ray and explore the beauty he could only glimpse from aboard ship, but not at night. Night was when one thought of threats above and below, when melancholy and fear knocked and entered the mind to fog it with meanderings.

He shook his head, wondering whether the drunks in his crew had the right of it. Perhaps he should go and wreck himself with Scotland’s finest and sleep, but before he could take the ladder to the hold he heard quick feet approaching, and urgent whisperings, the deep voice of First Mate Seaworth, and the sharper twang of young Waters. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ his steward said. ‘We shouldn’t bother Commander Snow, he already jumped down my throat this morning for losing them star charts.’

‘If you think you saw something, then you need to tell him about it,’ Seaworth said reprovingly. ‘We’re right vulnerable out here, drifting lost with no support. If there are ships approaching by stealth, under oar, they won’t be friendly.’

There was another stronger gust of wind, making him stumble a little as he turned to meet with the two men. ‘Waters, what did you see?’ he said abruptly, and watched the brawny young man fidget under his stare. Pressganged from Portsmouth, the apprentice blacksmith made a poor steward, but he was so amiable he hadn’t the heart to assign him to harder duty.

Davos was stoic, as grey and steady as granite, though Gendry hummed with nerves. ‘I was out in the head, having a piss, when I saw three shadows against the stars. Quiet as the grave out there, no hint of sails. Too far off to see whether they were ships, or just my eyes playing tricks,’ the steward mumbled.

A squirming disquiet in his guts made him snappish. ‘Where is the spyglass? Think you can find it, or did you lose that as well?’

‘I have it, Lord Commander,’ Ser Davos cut in, fumbling in his pocket. He snatched the brass item and strode quickly, adopting a rolling gait that was long practiced as the ship continued to shift and sigh in the building breeze, the white sails billowing like a ghostly apparition against the icy starlight. When he reached the canted rear of the ship, the two men scurrying behind him, he steadied himself against the rail and raised the glass to his eye, cursing when all he found was black. Black ocean, black sky dusted with the heavens, and three black shadows with no clear outline. But then he heard it, the faint hiss of oars through water.

‘Black sails,’ he spat. ‘They’re under black sails. That’s why you couldn’t see them.’ He lowered the glass and dithered, wondering if they could catch enough wind to escape to safety, but the pirate ships were moving rapidly under oar and sail, and would be more manoeuvrable than this lumbering old galleon.

‘What should we do, my Lord?’ Waters fretted. ‘I don’t want to tangle with no pirates.’

The churn in his belly was now joined by a tightening band of steel across his chest. He didn’t want to tangle with them either, but he had no choice in the matter. ‘Wake all hands,’ he ordered. ‘Tell them to get the cannons primed and aimed as quick as they can. And fetch me my sword.’

***

It was risky, but not as risky as some targets she marked and brought down in the last year. A clumsy beast of a British ship, lost and aimless in the dark. They had been tracking them since the tempest blew itself out, arguing over whether it was worth the inevitable blood and mayhem, but they were low on gunpower and shot, and always had to steal it from other ships as there was little opportunity to acquire it by legitimate means. So she made the decision, telling her crew to arm up and chase the ship down to catch it unawares.

She paced the deck in agitation, ignoring the boastful men around her riling each other with jokes and threats of slaughter of puny Englishmen in fancy lad coats and silly hats. There was a pistol at each hip, several horns of powder at her belt, and her trusty knives, one at her back tucked in her corset, the other hidden in her boot. Her dead husband, the dread pirate Drogo, had taught her to fight, fight dirty and win, and after his death in a stupid duel she had taken his ships, his crew and his island lair, and turned them to good use.

There had been a few men since to slake her choosy appetites, but none had been as useful. How she had loathed him, the great brute that had abducted her from the packet boat to Barbados and turned a relatively innocent lady into his whore, then his wife, but she’d grown used to him in the end. She blessed him now, as she felt the blood in her veins sing at the prospect of a good fight and plunder so she could continue her mission to pick off every despicable slave ship she could find.

The navy ship was now filling the horizon, swinging lamps illuminating the busy decks, men shouting and running to set up the cannons and fetch muskets, but all too late. They had caught them on the hop, moving fast to intercept, ram, and then trap fast with grappling hooks. Two ships, one on each side, a swarm of men, able fighters all, scrambling to hit the deck and bring every sailor and officer down who stood in their way, her third ship held in reserve in case of strong resistance.

‘At em, lads!’ she shouted at the crunch and grind of the _Drogon_ colliding with the port side of their prey, of equal enough height to leap over the side without the need for ladders. She stood back as her crew surged forward with a bloodthirsty roar, laughing in glee when she saw some sailors turn and run like cowards at the fearsome sight; savages in tattered bright clothes, some brown, some white, some black as coal, all armed with cutlasses and pistols. Then the shouts and screams and grunts began, her men sensibly heading straight for the cannons to disarm them, then the armoury to begin moving the barrels to the deck.

As the skirmishing men parted to leave a wide enough space she leaped up to the rail and stepped over lightly, raising a primed pistol and shooting down one blue coated man that came sprinting towards her, his own pistol raised. She got him in the leg, as always wanting to avoid killing too many. Shame, eternal shame over being bested by a mere woman was sweeter to her than pointless death. The man collapsed to the deck, clutching his thigh and whimpering like a babe, and she stepped over his body and reached for another horn of powder, arming up for another shot in a practiced move.

Her other hand went to the knife at her back and drew it out, a foot-long length of steel with a wicked edge, and she brandished it at a sailor who blocked her path. ‘Out of my way, boy, or I’ll stick you like a pig!’ she yelled, and he took one look at her and ran, making her giggle wildly. How she loved this, as long as they made it away unscathed with the booty they had come for, and she would continue to revel in it, all fear and worry banished to be brought out later on those nights when she could not find rest.

Her worst fear was being captured one day, paraded in the streets of Bridgetown like a poxed tart and strung up in front of a righteous mob, and she would rather go down in a hail of lead before she would let that happen. There was a St Christopher’s medal around her throat, and a small crucifix amidst the jumble of bright African beads and baubles, but she believed in no God, only herself and her need for justice, roughly delivered.

The fighting for control of the ship was faltering, weary, sullen men joining their fellows to be marched over to the head and cordoned in by scowling pirates, but she could hear the clash and ring of swords on the starboard side, so she moved quickly to find out who was putting up such a show of resistance. Running on her booted toes around the prow of the ship, dodging carcasses of injured men groaning and bleeding out, she rounded the corner to find two men locked in combat, a small crowd of her crew lounging around watching.

‘This one won’t yield, my Queen,’ Grey Worm grumbled. ‘Shall we gut him for you?’ She raised a hand to dismiss his offer, her gaze struggling to lock on to the duelling pair. The man in the blue and gold frockcoat moved like lightning despite his absurdly heavy clothes, and Jorah was struggling to keep up with his quick feints and spinning dancer-like moves, her lumbering old bear red faced and flailing.

The Commander’s hat had been knocked off, black curls falling loose from their binding, but his face was set and impenetrable, and exceedingly pleasing, with white skin, lowered brows like thick strokes of ink on parchment, and a plump, luscious mouth like a woman’s, open and heaving quick breaths, and was that a bloody longsword he was fighting with?

With a cunning twist of his old-fashioned blade the Commander knocked the cutlass out of Jorah’s hand, and she stopped staring and moved fast, raising her pistol and pressing the barrel against his temple the second she got close enough. ‘Lord Commander,’ she said sweetly. ‘Drop that antiquated sword, and yield. It would be a pity to put a hole in that handsome skull of yours.’

The man froze in an instant and turned his head slightly, a glimpse of liquid eyes black with fury and frustration, then the clang of his blade falling to the floor. Despite his precarious position at the end of her trusty pistol, he looked like he was going to throttle her, his angular, bearded face remaining tense and still, not showing a hint of fear or exertion. She felt a queer fluttering low in her belly, one that she had not felt for some time. She would very much like to admire that face and the rest of him at her leisure, so she made a snap decision, her mouth quirking in mischief as he continued to glower, and she lowered the pistol and jerked her head to the crowd of watchers.

‘Take him with us,’ she said, with a hint of lusty menace. ‘I like his pretty face.’

***

The struggle he put up as he was marched to the port rail and manhandled over the side to sprawl gracelessly on the deck of the sinister black ship was stupid, but brave. However it soon ended with a knife at his throat and a hiss of warning in broken English about a dark cell with manacles, and the Queen’s three large and hungry pet lizards. Fuming inwardly, he stood, brushing off his coat and breeches and hunting for dignity. Of his captor, his lovely but very infuriating captor, there was nothing to be seen, just a gaggle of savages of various hues escorting him to a small cabin and throwing him in.

He sat on the bunk with his head in hands for an age, despair sucking him down to the bottom of the black deeps as he imagined all possible fates, particularly of word getting out he had been ambushed and netted by a damn woman. He would never live it down, its discovery somehow worse that the prospect of imminent death, though the Pirate Queen seemed more interested in him than cutting his throat and throwing him to the sharks. For what purpose, he had no true idea.

After some time, the sound of barrels and cannon shot being heaved onto the ship shaking the hold as he sat still and tried to calm himself, a man appeared carrying a jug of steaming water and a bottle of rum, dropping them on the table and disappearing with a grunt, bolting the door behind him. Confused by the gesture but grateful, he popped the cork on the brown bottle and took a healthy swig, the liquor hitting his throat and making him wheeze it was so cursed strong. He stripped his coat and stock and washed some of the muck sweat and grime off himself, then lay down with the bottle, unwisely drinking until warmth filled his griping belly and aching head, sending his churning thoughts down ill-advised paths.

He had been at sea for months and not touched a woman in that time, so the base part of his mind could not help itself, lingering over the magnificent sight of the tiny lass with masses of unusual silver hair, an arresting face tinted gold by the tropical sun, her tight breeches, loose shirt and form fitting red corset flaunting all her curves and hollows. He usually preferred redheads, but that hair was singular, and it was all too easy to imagine it unbound, a river of silver over her throat and breasts to be twisted in his rough hands to draw her under him.

‘This is madness,’ he spoke to the empty cabin angrily, shaking himself free of the heated vision. To clear his head, he stood and began to pace the dirty floor like a caged wolf, the bottle still gripped in his hand. The noises up top had stopped, but after a few minutes he heard shouts and the rattle of chains, his ship being set loose to drift leaderless, and himself sailing off into unknown waters. ‘Bloody fucking hell!’ he snarled, driving his fist into the wall in a fit of rage, then regretting the throb of pain instantly. He had worked hard all his life to quell the temper that was never far from the surface, expressed in a bastard’s sullenness which had protected him from provocation, but he was a little too drunk and riled to remain detached at this point.

He ran his aching hand through his curls, muttering another oath when he found he’d lost the leather tie in the trip over. His brother Robb used to tease him that his raven locks would make any lady envious, but he was secretly too pleased with it to chop it off, his only flaw of vanity, he hoped. Again his thoughts drifted back to the Pirate Queen, and the avid look in her wide eyes as she had taken him in from inches away. Perhaps she found him attractive enough to steal him like a bolt of silk or chest of gold, and he found himself equal parts annoyed and intrigued, the latter emotion refusing to shut up.

If he escaped his bondage, he better find himself an obliging whore in port and slake his thirst. It did his wits no good to have his balls tied in knots, but he had always acted with caution when bedding women, refusing to bring another unwanted bastard child into the world. The last woman he’d had, the bosomy and kind-hearted Ros, he would pleasure with his mouth until she found release, and then she would take her turn. Often she would forget to ask for payment, so eager was she to get down to business, but he hadn’t been inside a woman since his intended had left him for a rich spice merchant. That was two years ago, and at this moment he felt every frustrated day of them.

The ship was falling silent around him, only the hiss of the ocean parting, the familiar sighs and creaks of movement, a few male voices close by, thick and slurred with victory drink. He yawned widely and returned to his bunk to sleep it off and relieve the dull ache in his groin with his right hand as usual, but then he heard the flap of bare feet, the rattle of the bolt, the same savage returning to grunt at him. ‘You come, Queen wants you.’

Muttering, he rose, donned his coat, pushed his unruly hair back from his face, and followed with dragging steps, the shiny black African opening a set of doors and shoving him inside rudely before vanishing down the pitching hallway. He closed the doors behind him and turned, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, ready to spit defiance. He found a comfortable but spare stateroom, a wide bed with crisp sheets and an Oriental coverlet, a washstand and coffers, a sliver of mirror, and a large tin tub.

The trail of water across the scrubbed boards and the scent of frangipani drew his gaze to the small but lethal woman perched on a settee, damp and near naked, clad in a billowy shirt and nothing else. In the lamplight he saw her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, her mouth wide lipped and rose pink, her legs also tinted by the sun. Her hair was unravelled from its practical braids, and he could see the outline of her high breasts beneath the thin cotton, and he cleared his throat and tore his eyes away abruptly. He heard an amused snort, and he stiffened and shot her a resentful glare.

‘I am quite taken with the way you look on me like you would either strangle me, or devour me,’ she said teasingly. ‘I wonder which will come first.’

Her voice was smooth and surprisingly cultured, and he tried to ignore its lure and the likely prospect she was bare arsed beneath that shirt and very accessible, and fished for outraged words. ‘I demand you return me to my ship immediately, my lady,’ he said firmly. ‘You have what you came for, now take me back. My men need me.’

‘No they don’t,’ she said, equally firm. ‘Commander Snow, isn’t it? You’re a figurehead in a fancy coat, a cog in the wheel of the mighty Royal Navy, rolling over every soul in its path, slave or free.’ She got up from her seat in a sinuous move, a glimpse of soft inner thighs making him blink before her words drew his attention back. ‘Why should I free you, only to go back to enabling the vile practice of slavery, and chasing me and mine around the Indies and guarding scumbag dealers in human flesh?’ Her voice was melodious, but there was passion there, and he wondered what had driven a pirate to take up a crusade with little reward.

Stung, he moved to defend himself. ‘I do my duty, and go where I am bid. I’m never asked whether I agree with my assignments, and often I don’t, but I am bound to serve, so I serve and don’t question.’ That sounded ponderous, and her mouth twisted in derision.

‘There are men in my crew who have deserted the navy because they wanted to be free to live, fight and fuck, and answer to no man,’ she replied with some challenge. ‘I’d say you were a coward and a crushing bore, Commander, but I’ve seen you fight, and neither are true, I think.’

The woman was now very close, so close he could see the curl of her lashes hooding her lovely eyes and the shadow between her breasts, barely concealed by the unlaced neck of her shirt, and her scent was of flowers and the salt tang of the sea and the musky undertone of her hidden places. Despite his simmering ire, he felt his neglected cock harden in a rush of blood. She either wanted to seduce him or berate him, and suddenly he didn’t care if she opted for both at once. It had been too long, and he was a man like any other.

Her mouth curled in a secretive smile, eyes widening to reveal a flare of pupils. ‘Such pretty brown eyes,’ she sighed. ‘Enough to make the driest woman wet between the legs.’ At this crude observation, he felt a blush flood his face. She spoke like a whore in a lady’s voice, and there was an angry twitch beneath his breeches in response. They were tight to start with, and now they chafed, and he was grateful for his coat hiding the evidence.

‘Take off your clothes,’ she said softly, as if reading his mind. He squirmed under her scrutiny, but he was stubborn.

‘I certainly will not. Are you mad, woman?’ To his own ears, it sounded puny and half-hearted, and the Pirate Queen only laughed.

‘A suitably stuffy Englishman’s response to such a suggestion,’ she taunted, then paused in her circling of his stiff figure, tilting her dainty chin. ‘I could force you, of course, but I have a feeling I won’t have to.’ With that she took the hem of her shirt and drew it over her head, revealing rosy tipped breasts and a flat belly and rounded hips, and a cunt with downy silver curls surrounding a neat set of lips as pink as her nipples. He gaped for a moment, incredulous and frozen to the spot, and then the beast in him slavered and strained loose, snatching and clawing.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter Two

__

 

_A/N: Wow, you fangirls (and boys?) like pirates a lot, and Lord Commander Snow. Thank you so much for your crazy response to this fic, I am really thrilled. I have a terrible hangover after spending Saturday at a music festival, but such is my dedication to smut I graciously decided to type and post Chapter 2 as quick as possible._

_I will now go back to finishing Up Against the Wall, but I will put a sequel to this on my list of fics for this year. Enjoy, and (insincere) apologies for withholding the smut._

_Second moodboard/aesthetic also provided by darling **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

 

Since she was widowed, she had sampled a few lovers. She was likely barren due to a stillbirth when she was first wed, so there was little danger of getting with child, and was quite ready to experience the sinful delights of experimenting with bodies and how best to employ them. But on the whole she found such encounters a disappointment, and unfortunately Commander Snow was no exception. Despite all his smouldering beauty, those full lips and expressive eyes and very tuggable black curls, and his impressive cock, she was left frustrated and marooned.

He had grabbed fistfuls of her loose hair, fallen across her on the bed, and had taken her in a flurry of half-shed clothes and rough hands. A few sharp, deep thrusts and a husky growl, and it was all over before she could enjoy any of it. Thoroughly pissed off, she had pushed him from her sprawled, shaking body the minute he collapsed, needing space and air, and a bloody drink.

Curled on her side, she stared dully at the curved wall of the hold, veering between disgust and an absurd sadness. She supposed she had asked for it, and should have kept expectations low. He probably hadn’t had his pretty cock near a woman in some time, and to his credit, he was so embarrassed she could _feel_ his shame radiating from him, like the burn of a slap on her bare arse.

‘My lady…I mean, Dany. I am sorry,’ he mumbled after a long, awkward silence. ‘It has been too long, and you’re so very lovely, and…’

‘Stop it,’ she said flatly. ‘No excuses, I beg you. Just make yourself useful and fetch me a drink.’

When she felt the bed shift, then heard a burdened sigh and the rustle of fabric, she looked up expecting to see him dressed and itching to back to his cabin cell, but to her surprise he was now naked, shirt and breeches and boots all gone. She felt a strong pang of thwarted lust at the sight of all that glorious milk-white skin encasing hard muscle and rounded cheeks, not a soft officer’s paunch and flat bottom, painted by shadows from the flickering lamps.  

She shrugged it off and rolled over on her back against the pillows, but was unable to drop her gaze from his glorious arse as he busied himself with the decanter and glasses she had pinched on a recent raid. There was a trickle of his seed down her thigh, and she palmed herself where she was raw and swollen, pondering over whether he was worth another crack. She was still annoyed, but all he had to do was to look at her with those striking, sooty eyes and touch her as she was now touching herself, and she would come hard. Beautiful men could always get away with little effort between the sheets, which is why she normally snubbed them in favour of men that were more rough-hewn and eager to please her.

When he returned to her, oddly carrying a basin of water and a cloth as well as her rum, she noted that he moved with the grace of a sleek, black cat, his heavy length semi-hard and a pleasing pink against the soft black hair of his groin and thighs. He was not very tall without his polished boots, but the rest of him was infuriatingly perfect. He gave her a bashful look beneath lowered lashes, but his face had firmed bravely against her lingering scorn. She snatched her drink and swigged it, waiting for him to speak in that low gravelly voice, very pleasant and lulling even when he was cross.

‘I want to do something just for you, to make up for it,’ he said hesitantly, his eyes wary, but as dark and depthless as a moonless night, irritatingly making her breath stop and start. ‘If you will permit me.’

She finished her drink and dropped the crystal glass to the floor carelessly, and eyed him with some surprise, considering her reply. He was very tempting, and the dull ache in her womb would trouble her all night it is wasn’t eased. ‘All right, Commander,’ she said, releasing her resentment in a sigh. ‘Let me see if you’re worth all the trouble.’

‘My name is Jon,’ he replied, with the first glint of a smile she had seen from him, wry but sweet, and he moved closer to her on the edge of the bed, taking the cotton square and dipping it in the basin on the floor.

The touch of the wet cloth over her mound and inner thighs sent a tingle of sensation up her belly to draw her nipples taut, and she spread herself without reserve so he could reach every crevice and fold, wondering what he was planning exactly, but the intimacy of it, the weight of his eyes on her body, drifting over her tanned skin like he was deciding where exactly to sink his white teeth and bite, was of greater interest at this point.

The ministrations left her clean but swollen and tingly and exposed, her folds open, her clit drawn out, a tiny pink protuberance that was the main focus of her pleasure, unless the man was particularly thick in girth and skilled at fucking her deep to bring on a powerful release. Such men were few, and she hoped this intriguing man was the one she was ever seeking, a lover who could take her with that balance of restraint and violence, get her on her knees and lift her arse and tear her in two.

When he knelt, bent over her, and put his mouth on her cunt without a further word, pulling her apart with his hands to delve within, she cried out in satisfaction that her instincts were right after all. He made himself at home between the fork of her legs, lifting them slightly to lap at her from the cleft of her arse to her aching clit, his lovely bottom up in the air for her delectation. Slow and careful at first, darting his eyes up her restless, quivering form to check her responses, then urgent and hungered, pulling at her folds in harsh mouthfuls, swiping at her clit with the flat of his tongue until she mewled in distress.

His thick, calloused fingers eased inside where she was still full of his seed and twisted, seeking out her secret spot as if he knew well how to bring a woman to release. She was panting and writhing now, her hands buried in his silky curls and gripping tight to hold him close to her dripping flesh, hips lifting to meet the firm plug of his fingers inside her cunt. By the time she climaxed in a fury of shattering pulses and a burst of bright light in her brain, she was completely helpless, a puddle of slack limbs her captive could easily overwhelm to make an ill-advised escape, but he merely groaned at the flood of nectar on his tongue, probing her greedily until she gave a hoarse scream and shoved him away.

Her skin was bathed in a warm glow, as if she had swum naked in a rock pool and crawled out to let the sun dry her, basking like a lazy lizard, but she opened her eyes at last to find Jon sitting up between her thighs, patient and still completely silent, his neat beard and cushiony lips sheened with her wetness, and so erect his cock pointed at her promisingly. Quite frankly, she was incredulous. ‘How on earth did you learn how to do _that_ in the bloody navy?’ she said curiously.

‘Lots of practice,’ he said, annoyingly curt. She had experienced only one lover who had any skill at using his tongue, but that had been amateur compared to this. She was both thrilled and somewhat disturbed at being so easily wrecked. Used to being in control in life, there was a flare of rather ungrateful resentment that showed plain on her face, making his gaze narrow slightly in response, but she didn’t want him to leave, oh no.

‘Come here,’ she purred. ‘I’m not nearly finished with you yet.’ He crawled up obligingly to lie over her, and her limp legs rose and closed around his narrow hips possessively, the nudging of his cock against her entrance, his soft, ripe mouth catching at her nipples in turn and suckling harshly, making her moan and squirm anew. He had not yet kissed her properly, but she didn’t want to force it. There was a vulnerability in taking someone’s lips and gazing into their soul from inches away that was different to mere fucking.

She touched him everywhere she could reach instead, owning him with her hands, squeezing his arse with each subtle shift against her loins, then mapping the ridges and curves of his muscled back. When her nipples became red and sore under the pull of his teeth, she growled and clamped her legs tighter and used all her strength to roll them over, his wild black hair fanning out on the sheets, his lustrous eyes startled for a moment at the aggressive move, then smouldering up at her as if lit from within.

She wasn’t going to have it this time, a few thrusts and then over, so he wasn’t allowed to move until she had ridden him raw. She groaned in bliss when she took him in hand and sank down slowly, the rigid length of him pulling her apart though she was soaking wet from his attentions, and she kept going until the fat head of him was nestled against her womb. His rasping curse and toss of his rumpled head, exposing his corded, creamy throat, made her groan louder and twist him deep before dipping down to run her tongue up the line of sinew to his thudding pulse.

She bit him hard, leaving a twin of the mark he had left on her neck earlier, spreading her knees wider to hold him where she needed the pressure. She avoided the lure of his parted lips hissing his appreciation and sat up, bracing her hands on his thighs, her breasts moving along with her hips in perfect rhythm. Although he was a fine sight laid out beneath her, she could not keep her eyes open, her face creasing at the pleasure surging like gentle waves on a shore. His hands dared to grab her arse and move her up and down so she felt that deep first stroke anew, her walls closing around him, a flare of pain as he hit her limits. God, he was so _right_ for her, too big to take without feeling deliciously invaded and overwhelmed.

At her sharp cry of response to the force of the thrusts, the strong hands tightened their hold, and she was trapped, dragged down and flipped on her back, crying out again in loss when he withdrew in a slippery rush. She was about to thump him when he lifted her legs off the covers and buried his face in her cunt again, lapping at her throbbing heat until she let out a string of desperate curses, horribly sensitive and dangerously close to the edge. She yanked at his curls, making him stop and look up with a glower that was rather intimidating, sending her desire soaring higher.

‘How do you want it?’ he husked at her, and she bit her lip, considering her weakened position, and what the dark, whorish part of her was screaming in demand. To hell with it, she wanted to be fucked until it hurt, and there was always the knife kept under the pillows to draw out in defence if he tried to take advantage of her submission, overpower her and do a bolt.

‘Take your revenge,’ she said, soft and goading. ‘I know you’re dying to. Have me the way you want me, and do it hard.’ All assumptions of the Commander being prudish and buttoned up and not worth the energy had vanished at the incredible pleasure of his lips and tongue and teeth, and though riding him was delightful, it was not the same as being properly ravished. Hopefully this time it would be longer, testing her limits until she was more than ready for him to bring an end.

‘You’re utterly shameless,’ he said with some awe, but no disapproval, and startling her he slid up her body to hover a mere inch from her face, his inky eyes just as stunning as anticipated up close, a wash of heat prickling on her already flushed cheeks, as if she was suddenly shy. ‘Are you going to bite me if I kiss you?’

She shook her head once, her curled mouth instantly taken in a delicate brush of succulent lips and scratchy whiskers, subtle and sweet and teasing. She felt it in her fingers and toes, a tingle of nerves overlaying the demanding pulse of raw need that had driven her the moment he was pushed through her door, but she didn’t want sweet. She took his mouth with a jab of her tongue, firm flicks to stir his composure, sinking her nails into his left arse cheek and clawing until he broke away and hissed at her. ‘Get up on your hands and knees.’

She swallowed a whine of excitement at this, trying to appear nonchalant as she shrugged him off her again and turned over, her hands grabbing hold of the pillows and her arse lifting high, thighs splitting to expose her cunt. At his hand holding her there, the sense of him lurking behind her, his fingers tracing her cleft down to her clit, the act crumbled, and she made a weak, pathetic noise that shamed her. ‘Your cunt is as bewitching as the rest of you,’ he whispered. ‘And tastes of honey and sea salt.’ The hand withdrew, and she wailed and bucked when he sheathed himself in her quickly, lapsing back into silence as he moved in slow, circular thrusts. Oh _God_ , he felt so very _good_ , every motion hitting all the places only usually found with her own explorations.

She tensed her inner muscles around him, wanting a fight to fill her up, to hold on to that feeling of being pulled apart. ‘God, you’re as tight as a lock,’ he grunted. ‘How’s this?’

The low voice of enquiry together with his cock slowly stretching her open with great skill was all too much for her. ‘Harder,’ she begged. ‘Do it harder. Bruise me.’ She turned her head so she could watch him, his drooping lids, his teeth worrying his bottom lip, lines of strain on his face, the tumble of raven curls, until the pain and pleasure blended in her core, her face contorting as she braced herself for each hard slap against her raised arse, feeling the impact in her very bones.

He now fucked her like a savage, a grunt at each punishing blow. She had stolen him away, teased him, snarled at him, shocked him with her sluttish thoughts and urges, and the end result was everything she had long craved. She keened and cried and shrunk herself smaller under the assault, taking every solid inch of his cock like an accommodating whore, savouring the brutality of it, knowing she would feel the effects in her loins in the morning, and every bruise on her hips from the tight clasp of his hands holding her down.

All too soon there was a deep clenching inside her womb, an agonising cramp of pure sensation, and she howled into the pillows, her body releasing around his driving cock, the kind of orgasm that made one blind and deaf but for the roar of blood in the ears, her legs shaking and straining to hold her up, her breath heaving like a bellows. A strangled cry from above her, three more vicious blows into her rippling channel, and she was filled with hot seed, a flood of it added to the remnants and spilling out of her tender cunt as the Commander was felled and flattened her to the bed.

She was too sated, too gripped in the never-ending waves of repletion flowing over her sweat drenched skin to think of shaking him off this time. In fact, she didn’t want him parted from her flesh, or out of her bed, for an age, perhaps even forever.

***

When he finally regained his senses, and eased off his new lover to flop down next to her dozing form and watch her as she slipped in and out of peaceful sleep, he expected to feel shame at all he had done, consorting with an enemy pirate lass and using her like a brute instead of as a gentleman should, but Dany would not let him wallow in it. She roused at last, and got up to fetch the decanter and a glass for him, and sat cross legged on the bed, bare and beautiful and challenging, prodding him with clever words until he was stirred to talk freely.

There was more to good bed sport than fucking, and his edgy ill mood of earlier failed to return as the Pirate Queen charmed him with her wits as well as her breasts and belly and sparkling blue eyes and tight, sweet cunt. Never in his life had he used a woman so hard, or come so hard he could still feel the warm glow lying heavy in his tired loins. He tried to find the comforting outrage at being attacked and captured, but it was an elusive sprite in his empty, echoing mind, filled only with her smooth voice regaling him with tales of her bold doings on the high seas.

‘So you free the slaves still living from the hold, transport them to your ships and set the slave ship to burn,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘This much I know from dispatches, but where do you take them? And how do you pay for such an extraordinary crusade?’

She gave him a considering look, and took a sip of rum before replying, rolling the liquor on her tongue. It was evident she had a steady head for drink, she had put away three glasses to his two and wasn’t even tipsy.

‘My home is located on an island away from the main shipping routes,’ she replied. ‘We transport the slaves there. They have built huts, and sown crops. Some join us on the hunt for victims.’ She gave him a knowing leer. ‘As for gold, my husband Drogo left me a store, and we have been known to attack and plunder the odd merchant ship that strays in our path.’ At his evident disapproval at this, she smiled unrepentantly. ‘I’d tell you more, Jon Snow, but I’m not sure I trust you with all my secrets. You’re just too damn honourable not to try and stop my reign of terror, no matter how much you enjoyed fucking me blind.’

‘I can hardly do anything from here,’ he shrugged. ‘My ship is leagues away by now, and I’m not sure I want to return to Bridgetown and report I was attacked and ravished by a fierce little lady pirate.’ He smiled slyly, very pleased when she threw her bright head back and laughed.

‘I would apologise for the inconvenience and humiliation, Lord Snow, but it would be a lie. I have no patience for such niceties,’ she replied after her laughter subsided, her very lovely face settling to a more serious expression. ‘Since you have pleased me so much, I offer you a choice, though the thought of letting you go already makes me feel most deprived. I can drop you on an atoll on the nearest shipping route with water and food and flint, so you can be rescued by the navy, or you can slip free of that noose around your neck and stay with me.’

He took a sip from his glass, then another, his thoughts roiling beneath his calm, contented surface, plain common sense, and the predictable routine of navy life nagging at him from the pragmatic half of his soul. He would never see his family again, but he never saw his brothers and sisters and lordly father anyway. He would be a marked man, hung as a deserter if caught, and that was a real possibility. The West Indies was not so wild and empty that one could hide with an infamous gang of pirates forever.

But she was so stirringly beautiful, and naughty and bossy and brave, and if he joined her and enjoyed her body and company every night he would never be bored, or lonely. He would never be forced to carry out duties he resented until he was old and weathered, or had saved enough gold to buy himself out and retire to some hamlet in Yorkshire to marry a plain spinster, or innkeeper’s daughter, and dream of what might have been until he grew bitter with it.

He should hate her for offering him such a tough choice, for snatching him from his command because she thought him pretty and forcing him to make it, but he felt nothing but confusion, and sadness at the prospect of losing her, of never getting to know her and all her intriguing quirks, faults, and fascinating secrets. She would likely drive him mad, but he would be happy to lose his wits, and his heart.

‘I’ve never known of a gang of pirates who weren’t eventually caught,’ he said softly, reaching out to brush a lock of silver hair away from her expectant face. ‘I wouldn’t fancy being hanged, but I would like to see you hanged even less, my Queen.’

The smile she gave him was fond, her azure eyes almost misty, and she caught his straying hand and held it against her breasts. ‘Yes, they may catch us eventually,’ she said dismissively. ‘But we would have a marvellous time before they do, and I’ve never been afraid of death, only failure, and being brought low before a baying crowd. I won’t let that happen to us. Come with me and live free, or ask me to free you to exist. Make your choice, Jon Snow, and be at peace with it.’

He knew what it would be. His fate was written the minute he took her in his arms, winced from her scorn and disappointment, tasted her nectar on his tongue, and said something clever enough to make her laugh. He was a damn fool, but for the first time in an age he felt filled with air and light instead of leaden darkness, and that was worth the threat of the hangman. ‘I’d best stay then, so I can protect you,’ he said solemnly, making her eyes narrow in dry amusement, her wide smile blossoming again. ‘And to keep you honest, and make sure you don’t steal too much from honest folk.’

‘I stole _you_ ,’ she said, lifting his hand and dropping a kiss on his palm. ‘You now seem to approve of that thievery, though I very much enjoyed it when you were all furious and broody about it.’

‘I am sure I will live to regret this madness, and be grumpy about it soon enough,’ he smiled at her. ‘But as long as you take me to bed afterwards to cheer me up, I will live with it, and gladly.’

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

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_A/N: Hi, pirate appreciators, this is an experiment to see if I can write an update in a single day, which I did, so apologies if it’s a bit wonky. When we left the hapless Commander Snow, he had enjoyed the Pirate Queen’s company so much he decided to stay with her and her gang of marauders. In this chapter, her island lair is revealed, and Jon is a bit grumpy about his life choices, until he’s not._

_Enjoy, and let me know what you think. Fic will stay open ended to write when I get stuck with Up Against the Wall and need a break, if you all COMMENT. Thanks to my Tarts for helping me thrash this out. Gorgeous aesthetic/mood board provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

He could smell land close by, complex and tantalising, like the woman who had stolen him for her own.

Having spent years at sea, his nose was finely attuned to it, his soul ever longing for the feel of solid ground beneath his boots. Rich, humid soil baking in the sun, the sharpness of salt-encrusted rock, the sweet stench of rotting fruit, the muddy thickness of mangrove swamps. Like a foxhound after prey, he sniffed his surrounds carefully, unable to see a thing through the kerchief that bound his eyes and added to his discomfort.

He could sense bodies all around him, hot and sour with sweat, men grumbling and cursing as they worked at sail and oar to bring the ship into harbour, the rattle of the anchor chain descending into the deeps to find purchase. Close by, he caught the fading scent of frangipani blossom, delicate steps on the deckboards, a small hand petting his shoulder with familiarity.

‘I’m going to take this off now, Commander. I think you are sufficiently disorientated.’

Fingers plucked at the knot at the back of his head, tangling in his unruly hair, which had turned into a wild mop of tight curls in the dense tropical air. He had no leather tie, or hair oil to keep it tidy. He had nothing except his dishevelled uniform, and his trusty blade, which had finally been returned to him when he came on deck. He had wrapped the swordbelt around his hips without sight, the comforting weight of the ancient sword calming his scattered wits somewhat.

Two days abed, with no knowledge of his whereabouts, the future wrapped in sea fog, his only focus the tiny, fierce woman who demanded much of him between the sheets, but was careful with giving away too much of herself. She was too savvy and wary after years as an outlaw to trust him with her secrets, though she was quick to trust him with her body. So, he was kept down below as the ships traced their circuitous route back to her island, and somewhat humiliated by the blindfold when they came on deck to disembark, earning a few guffaws from loitering pirates, making his spine stiffen and jaw clench. He would have to tread warily here but also assert himself, or he would be treated no better than a kept man, merely tolerated for their queen’s sake.

The blindfold fell away, and he squinted in the glaring sun, lifting a hand to his eyes to shade them as he took in the wide bay which was the same shape as a wine goblet, holding the three black ships in its calm embrace. The water was turquoise blue, dotted with submerged islets of multi-hued corals, traps for unwary visiting ships. The island was craggy, vivid green jungle, a few hacked-out areas of straggling cropland, mean huts and a wind-ruffled headland to the southern end, a small white house backed by tall coconut palms. The breeze shifted, and his nose filled with the smell of burnt sugar, so strong he could taste it on his tongue.

‘Welcome to Dragonstone, Lord Commander,’ the woman beside him said, the corner of her wide mouth tilting as she took in his preoccupied face. ‘I am sorry I had to keep our route a secret, but we need to get to know each other better before I let you into all my plans and tricks.’

‘As you say, my lady,’ he said grudgingly, straightening in his rather grubby frockcoat, sweat trickling unpleasantly down the back of his neck. Supressing the urge to grumble at Dany resentfully about his treatment in front of the curious men, he hunted for polite conversation as they waited for the row boats to be lowered. ‘That is a rather odd name for an island. Where does it come from?’

Like himself, the Pirate Queen was looking a little weary and grimy. Not much sleeping had occurred in her bed, and much exertion, and there was not enough fresh water left on board for either of them to bathe. Her unique hair was in a messy braid, her shirt crumpled and damp, exposing the sweat sheened hollow of her lovely breasts, which still drew his eye though he’d had his face buried in them multiple times.

‘There is a sleeping volcano on the far side of the island which smokes and mutters like a dragon,’ she said with a girlish smile. ‘My father was well read in medieval tales, and had a fine collection of books. I grew up with a fancy for dragons, and always wished they were real.’

The whimsical words softened his scowl a little, and curiosity nagged at him more than his simmering temper. He was desperate to know more about this woman, more than the tiny glimpses of her mysterious past she was willing to give him.  ‘Were there any inhabitants when your husband took over the place?’

‘No, when Drogo set up his lair the island was empty,’ she said without a trace of sadness for her dead husband on her bewitching face. ‘It was once inhabited by native people, but they were all wiped out by the pox when the Spanish began taking control of the Indies. The freed slaves swear that some parts of the island are haunted, and fear to tread there.’

He himself had no fear of ghosts and ghouls, and was very keen to get off the ship and away from the leering men that swarmed around the pair of them, shooting him envious or disparaging looks, and with eagerness he swung down the rope ladder to the first available boat when it appeared, agile despite his heavy coat and sword. The trip across the bay was short, and he kept his eyes to the water as the boat was rowed across, distracting himself by the pinks and blues and yellows of the coral gardens, and their bright darting fish, not dwelling on what he had gotten himself into, thinking with his cock instead of his head.

The Pirate Queen stuck close to his side, trailing her small fingers in the sea, chatting to two crew members who crowded the boat. An older fair man with a cultured accent and bright blue eyes who he recalled duelling with on his lost ship, and a man of mixed race who was terse and watchful, Grey Worm or some other strange name.

On the chalk-white beach, there was a small crowd to meet them, and he noticed a long wooden building in the background where the smell of rum was very strong. There were low tables set up under an awning, and carousing men with tankards, mostly black or brown in hue. He felt a rush of nerves squirm in his stomach at the sight of all those hostile men, and wondered whether he would survive an hour in this rats’ nest of cut throats without someone trying to knife him. He was the enemy, a deserter from the navy that constantly hunted for them on the high seas, obvious by his blue and gold coat and wary expression.

He groped for the hilt of his sword, the white stone wolf cool and comforting in his palm, readying himself for a fight even as his boots hit the shallows and he staggered a little, his sea legs making him clumsy. As he straightened and glared at the half-circle of scruffy men that eyed him with ill intent, his captor and lover leapt nimbly from the boat and stepped forward. ‘Lads, this is Jon Snow,’ she said clearly to the crowd, deliberately leaving off his lofty title. ‘When we attacked his ship, and took all his gunpowder and shot, he decided he’d had enough of the Royal Navy and decided to throw in with us instead. Anyone tries to harm a hair of his head, I’ll have his bloody guts for garters. Understood?’

While the intention was protective, it only served to make him more discomforted. ‘I thank you, my lady, but I am quite capable of defending myself,’ he said huffily, but lowered his brows and stuck out his jaw at the men.

One man with an eye patch, stringy black hair and a mouthful of gold teeth sauntered forward, his hand on his cutlass, turning to spit a wad of chewing tobacco onto the pristine white sand. ‘As you say, my queen, and we obey,’ he said in the sharp tones of a Londoner. ‘But he’s a very pretty lad, and it’s kind of annoying. Can I carve his face up a bit?’

Dany’s mouth quirked, but her tone was cool. ‘I’ve seen this man fight with that sword he wields, and I’d like to see you try it Bronn, but I like his face the way it is. Get back to your rum, the crew have a thirst. They’ve done good work, so make sure you get them all nice and drunk.’

The scraggy rogue bowed, blue eyes glinting in mockery, and he was glad to turn his back on him and follow the woman’s enticing yet infuriating figure up the beach towards the headland, wincing at the stares he could feel boring through the back of his coat. He suddenly wished he’d made his choice differently and returned to his old, uncomfortable but predictable life, with only the memory of the Pirate Queen’s lush body and earthy laughter to treasure until he was an old, grey man, alone in his dignity.

***

When her husband had died in a brawl in Bridgetown, bleeding out on the floor of a tavern, she had returned to Dragonstone with his body and burnt it in the house they had lived in together. In the ashes of the ruins she had her new house built, a simple structure of white coral blocks with a wide porch to sit, the roof well thatched with palm fronds, the door painted a bright cherry red with a rare find of a pail of paint on a raid.

It was her sanctuary, the encircling jungle keeping out the other island inhabitants, who wouldn’t dare to chance her temper by entering in any case. She had the headland for her private use; the wide meadow of springy grass, the mango tree that overshadowed the yard, her outdoor bath which was fed by a nearby spring, the blissful peace and isolation from the unruly pirates and growing population of Africans who were settling in their new home and carving out an existence.

Her three monitor lizards were free to hunt in the jungle, and were often seen lurking in the hibiscus bushes that fringed the yard, growing larger by the week, and very effective at scaring people she disliked. When the sunken tub was filled with water and she disarmed, stripped, and slipped inside to cleanse the grime and salt from her naked form, she could see Viserion eyeing her from a mango branch, newly released from his pen in the ship and just as eager as she to escape the noise and bustle.

She heard a yell from inside the house, a scuttling of clawed feet, Drogon leaping from the porch to flee the startled man within, and she smothered a giggle, wishing she had been there to see Jon’s reaction when the massive lizard came inside to look for her, but it wasn’t wise to wind him up further. He was in an ill mood, perhaps resenting her lack of trust in him, and the attitude of her men to his presence, and likely brooding about the reckless choice he had made when she offered it. She sighed heavily, wondering how to cheer him up.

A man’s pride was a touchy thing, and more difficult to navigate than a jagged reef. She could only hope his inherent goodness and dry sense of humour would overcome his grouchiness, along with what he could do to her, and she to him. As many times as he wished, but first he needed a bath, and some new clothes that left him unburdened and showed off his exceedingly fine figure. Her husband had been a tall, brawny beast of a man, but she had some smaller items stored in a chest, useful when she was trying to disguise herself as a boy when forced to venture into ports for scarce items, her hair hidden under a cap and her figure by layers of bulky clothes.

When she was thoroughly clean she rose from the tub, emptying it and replacing the water with fresh for her guest. Wrapping herself in a length of cotton African-style, she sat on the porch to comb her hair, calling out to Jon that the bath was available. When he ventured out swathed in a towel, looking suspiciously around the yard for her alarming pets, she gave him a dazzling smile and left him to it, guessing he needed the space to clear his head, though she was eager to see him naked, still not bored with the delectable sight.

Inside the house, she rummaged in the sandalwood chest for breeches and a shirt, laying them out on the bed, her mouth curling as she imagined him arrayed in the scanty attire, considerable more practical and attractive than that damn fancy lad frockcoat. His body was a work of art that should be displayed to the world, though she would be sad to see that white skin turn brown in the sun, as pale as the moon and cool and unyielding to the touch. And his beautiful eyes, the colour of the chocolate she used to drink as a special treat as a child, the thought of those eyes staring down at her as he was balls deep in her accommodating cunt made her flush from her wet hair to her bare toes.

It was alarmingly easy to imagine falling head over heels in love with Jon Snow, which was why she was careful with the inner workings of herself around him. She wondered idly as she tidied away his old clothes into the laundry basket why no woman had snapped him up yet. Money and status, she guessed, her face twisting in derision. A bastard son, with no fortune or prospects other than the navy, such hindrances were more important to ladies than a strikingly handsome face and pretty black curls, and of course they would be too bloody prudish to find out until the wedding night what lay beneath that gentlemanly exterior. How fortunate she was, to be a shameless tart who wasn’t beholden to traditional morals.

She went to lie down on the bed for a while, straightening out her tired limbs, the fine net of gauze surrounding the bedframe to keep mosquitos at bay billowing in the breeze from the glassless windows. She dozed a little, until she heard the pad of bare feet on the floor, a clearing of throat. She looked up, finding him swathed in the towel, his raven hair wet and dragging to his shoulders, his plump mouth still a little pouty. The line between his brows hadn’t faded, though he appeared more relaxed.

‘You are still unhappy about something,’ she sighed. ‘So, tell me what it is, and stop glowering.’ She sat up, flicking her drying hair out of her face.

He was silent for a moment, fingering the clothes at the foot of the bed with a dubious look in his chocolate eyes, then he caught her gaze. ‘It offends me that you don’t trust me,’ he said abruptly. ‘I am a man of honour, even if I have nothing else. And I don’t like being paraded into your lair like I’m a chest of gold or jewels you nicked.’

 ‘I would be a fool to trust anyone after three days acquaintance, even a man of honour,’ she snorted defensively. ‘And if I didn’t warn everyone off, they’d be after you in a pack. You are an able swordsman, but you can’t take on a dozen men at once. I don’t wish for you to come to harm, and you need time to find your place here, not have your throat cut in an hour for looking at someone sideways.’

It was fascinating watching him struggle with himself, his common sense versus his masculine touchiness, but then his shoulders slumped, and he nodded. ‘All right, Dany,’ he said huskily, his mouth turning up at the corner grudgingly. ‘What are these?’ he said, gesturing to the clothes. ‘They look rather indecent.’

‘New clothes. You’ll be less uncomfortable, and look very handsome,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Try them on for me.’

To her delight, he dropped the towel and picked up the grey breeches, drawing the garment up his corded thighs, a glimpse of his fabulous arse before he drew them closed with a struggle, fiddling with the brass buttons. ‘I don’t know about comfortable, these seem awfully tight,’ he said, shooting her a suspicious look. ‘And this bloody shirt,’ he added, picking it up and drawing it over his rumpled head. ‘This shows off half my chest. I suspect an ulterior motive here, my lady.’

She choked down a peal of laughter. ‘No motive, Commander. They are my clothes for when I am in disguise in port. If they don’t suit you, we will get you more, but I think you look perfect in them. And stop calling me a lady, I certainly am not.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said, low and soft. ‘You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met, and damn naughty with it. I must be touched in the head following you here. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.’ The words were defensive, but there was an affection in his eyes that was pure and sweet, albeit reluctant.

The glow of feeling confused her, not knowing where it came from, or how to react, but eventually she settled for bedevilment. ‘I may not know your mind, Jon Snow, or you mine, but I know your body, and I know why you followed me here.’ She got up from the bed in a glide, stepping lightly around him, admiring him from every angle but staying out of reach. ‘You followed me here because you enjoy fucking me too much to let me go, and even though you’re grumpy about it, you will stay.’

He swallowed, the flick of his tongue on his plump lower lip warring with his frown. ‘I have spent the last hour thinking about leaving,’ he growled at her, but she saw the faltering defiance in his darkening eyes, and smiled slowly, inching down the cloth wrapped over her breasts to free them to his wandering gaze, unable to stay away from her circling figure.

‘Hmm yes, you may have been thinking of that, but I wager you were also thinking of holding me down and taking me in any hole, releasing all that aggravation in the best possible way,’ she purred. ‘Well, you can either sulk, or you can come after me and claim me.’

At his curse, expelled in a hiss of air, she whirled around and walked outside, taking the steps to the yard, wondering how far she would get before he followed. Another vile curse and the thud of feet, she hitched up her makeshift attire and took off at a mischievous run, the childish urge to be chased down giving speed to her bare feet.

She broke through the bushes, sending a cloud of blue butterflies fluttering frantically away, finding the brilliant green of the meadow before her. She ran as if a beast was tracking her, rather than a delicious man who she very much wanted to catch her, the sun in her eyes and wicked joy in her heart at the prize she had stolen for herself, but was yet to win.

***

She was right, she was bloody well _right_ , and it made him run like a wolf after a doe, a snarl in his chest, intending to take her down in the grass and teach her a lesson for being so damn aggravating. She was fleet of foot, but struggling with the cloth wrapped around her as she ran, her silver hair a taunting banner in the breeze, luring him on until he lunged forward and caught her around her waist, making her squeal before he bore her weight down to the ground, jarring her a little with the heft of his body falling over her.

She giggled up into his hovering face, her wide blue eyes sparkling with mirth, so he silenced her abruptly with a kiss, scratching her delicate skin with the depth of it, her lips parting with a moan to let him in, her tongue and teeth giving him the same treatment and sending a jolt straight down his centre to his cock. Already hardening from the chase, it stiffened in a tingle of nerves, fully erect and straining at the tight breeches, eager to be let out and plunged inside her addictive heat, making her writhe and cry out in torment.

He wasted no time unwrapping her from the thin cloth, unspooling it between kisses until she was bare arsed and soft and springy in his arms, her greedy hands travelling under his shirt to rake at his back. He wanted to slow it down, take her lips in slow drags and annoy her with gentle, reverent touches and probings, but he was too wound up to resist her challenge to have her in any way he wanted.

When he mouthed the pink tips of her perfect breasts, he sunk his teeth in and rasped her with his whiskers, suckling hard enough to make her whimper in protest. When he slid his face down her tanned belly to the wispy silver curls and glistening petals of her cunt, he didn’t open her with care, but hoisted her legs backwards and drew her folds deep, pulling and growling at the salt-sweet taste of her arousal, rewarded by a series of mewls and thrashings as she yielded to the pleasure.

He turned her focus to her clit, flattening his tongue against the tiny bundle and lapping it repeatedly, the gush of wetness and throb under his mouth giving away her mounting climax along with her sharp cry, his aching cock near bursting out of the breeches he was so mindlessly excited by the taste and sound and feel of her. He was a bloody fool, but he wanted to lose himself in this, every day of his miserable, pointless life, even if the rest of her drove him stark raving mad.

He fumbled for the buttons at his groin, freeing his cock with a grunt of relief, dipping his tongue inside her cunt a few more times to make her squirm before rising up to shed the shirt and crawl up her body, a happy sigh escaping her at the sight of him before she took him between her lips and sucked him into the warmth of her mouth. Straddling her face, her hands gripping his thighs to hold him back, he watched her intently and revelled in the skill of her tongue encircling the head of him, the pressure of her lips and cheeks as she took him deeper.

Air hissed through her nose and her eyes bulged as he lunged to hit the back of her throat in dark impulse, her frantic moans vibrating down the length of his cock, hands flailing. It felt so damn good, but he would push her only so far, he knew enough about her appetites by now to sense how much she could take. Backing off, he groaned at the feathery jabs of her tongue exploring him teasingly, until he felt his balls tighten in warning and pulled out of her lips with a wet pop.

The heady mix of the scent of crushed grass under her body, the taste of her nectar on his tongue, the heat rising from her flesh, her limpid eyes fluttering languorously up at him buzzed in his brain and flickered over his skin, his voice rasping as he sat back and taunted her. ‘I’m minded to punish you for being so fucking naughty.’

‘Mmm, that sounds interesting, though I deny all wrongdoing,’ Dany murmured, arching against the grass and crumped cotton under her small figure, her tits bouncing. ‘Does it involve fucking me hard?’

He couldn’t help his snort of laughter. ‘Aye, eventually. But first I will make you suffer a bit, naughty wench. Get up on your knees and show me that pretty round arse of yours.’ Obedient only in matters of the flesh, she moved quickly, lying naked and prone in the green grass, the sunlight in her hair and lining the curves of her body, her buttocks plump and soft under his hands, her cleft sheened with arousal and a deep pink, inviting him to lunge inside her and scratch that itch that had her quivering under his touch.

With weary resignation he knew he would not hold out long, so he raised his arm and brought his palm down on her left cheek with a harsh slap, making her sob and buck forward, but then she lifted her arse again to be dealt another blow, her throaty moan signalling her delight in such treatment, as he had suspected. A few more swats and a rosy glow on her buttocks and she was moaning like a whore and touching herself, balanced on one arm as she worked her fingers over her clit, the sight of it making him hiss between his teeth and blink it away. ‘So fucking _naughty_ ,’ he growled, lifting his stinging hand one last time, and spanking her hard enough to make her yelp.

She lifted her messy head from the ground and whined. ‘Take me back to the house and fuck me.’

‘I will not,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘I’m going to take you right here in the grass, and if you get bitten by ants it’s your own fault for getting me to chase you.’ He smiled when he heard her swear, then break into a giggle, but then the knot in his groin became too much to bear any longer.

Planting his foot to the right of her hunched form, angling himself in the way he had quickly learned drove her insane, he grasped her hips and penetrated her in one stroke, the tight grip of her slick cunt sucking him down to her womb so shatteringly good he feared he would shame himself again and come in a heartbeat. He gritted his teeth and stilled, adjusting to the heat and pressure around his cock, then began to glide in long strokes, hitting the back of her cunt with each movement, grunting like a beast as he let himself get lost in her. Her hand was busy between her spread thighs, sharpening the pleasure he was administering until her moans became wails.

Although her arse filling his hands and the rest of her kneeling before him to take his cock was utterly intoxicating, he had the sudden urge to see her face as he fucked her, drown in her blue depths and watch her mask of distant amusement crack in pieces. He withdrew from her in a gush of wetness and flipped her on her back, lifting a leg to brace it on his shoulder before sinking deep, watching her beautiful face contort, her eyes staring up at him as if transfixed. He was hard on her, his hips moving rapidly to stretch her completely, her body shaking under him as he chased his climax down selfishly, drawing it out long as he could stand.  

A high, thin scream, an arch of her spine, and he watched her fall apart, the ripple of her walls contracting around his aching cock drawing his seed in thick spurts into her womb, the release crashing in his mind like waves in a tempest. His eyes slammed shut, and he froze, letting her receding orgasm milk him of every drop, and then all the joints in his body loosened and he collapsed into the clinging arms and legs around him, a kiss dropped on his temple, then his brow, his nose, then finally catching his gasping mouth, sweet and possessive.

He was boneless, floating on a pink sunset cloud, his mind a pleasant void of nothing, his tongue incapable of speech for a long while as the sun beat down on his back and arse, threating to burn. ‘Did any ants get you?’ he eventually murmured, lifting his head a little to meet her eyes, as blue as the deep ocean but as warm as the earth beneath them.

‘No, it was too quick for that,’ she said with a quirk to her lips.

‘You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?’ he said dryly, bending to peck her dainty nose.

‘If you keep doing all _that_ to me, Jon Snow, I will. Eventually.’


	4. Chapter Four

__

 

_A/N: Hello, pirate fancying punters. In this chapter, Dany plays dress up to go undercover in town, Jon is grumpy at being left behind, a bar fight and other masculine adventures. Partially written with parrot on shoulder for authenticity. If you had fun reading, you know what to do._

_This chapter’s mood board kindly made by **NoOrdinaryLines** , thank you girl *spanks*_

 

The little white house was cool and dim inside, a haven from the relentless tropical sun which beat down on the yard at its midday zenith. It was so hot that even the queen’s fearsome pets had grown weary and retreated into the shade under the porch, rustling and thumping about in search of rats. He himself had also had quite enough of the sun, and was lying on the canopied bed, mildly uncomfortable despite Dany slathering aloe juice on him the previous night amidst much scolding about ruining his fine white skin.

He knew he would eventually toughen up and turn brown, but he was in that stage of any Englishman unaccustomed to tropic weather where he burnt in any spot he was careless enough to leave bare. On ship, he was usually well covered and wearing his tricorne as befitted an officer, but his old clothes had mysteriously disappeared the day he’d arrived, leaving him the three options of those indecent breeches and shirt, a length of cotton to preserve his modesty around the house, or his lady’s preference, which was nothing.

He was still torn between glowering resentment and instinctual happiness at his chosen fate as the lover of a feisty pirate queen who was exceedingly bossy and evasive, but with each passing day and every piece of information he gleaned about Dany he found the happiness was winning. He’d only been on the island for a week and had barely stirred from the confines of the house and yard, and his memories of repetitive days of sea duty; hard men, hard beds, scrubbed wooden boards and infinite ocean, vile food and utter boredom were already faded and quite free of nostalgia.

He may be annoyed and sunburnt, and occasionally startled by giant lizards, huge spiders and the odd curious bat, but everything about the island and his mischievous sprite of a lover was a heady, sensual delight he rolled on his tongue and savoured. But he knew this was no holiday, and eventually he would need to stop loafing and find his place in the deadly serious business of righteous, and not so righteous piracy. Thus far, the Pirate Queen would not let him, hence his sulking beneath the gauzy curtains of the bed while his lover fossicked about in coffers, readying herself for the afternoon’s journey.

Her full name was Daenerys Stormborn, named for the biblical tempest that had greeted her arrival on the day of her birth. She came from a rich plantation in Jamaica, named Targaryen House. Her father was Welsh, hence the mouthful of a name and the fascination with dragons, her mother a wilful Danish lady who had died giving birth to her. At that piece of information, he had smiled, recalling the bloodthirsty tales of Viking raiders the Winterfell nurse Old Nan used to tell the Stark children while he listened agog, reaving and raping and carrying away gold and gems, some of them warrior women.

It was all too easy to imagine his hard-nosed, ship burning lover with sword and breastplate and in streaks of blue paint, terrorising monks and setting fire to churches, tiny though she was. He was longing to join her on a raid to take and burn a slave ship, and see her in action, but today she was merely going to Bridgetown to buy supplies, and had flatly refused his requests to accompany her for her protection. ‘You are too recognisable, and Bridgetown is a Royal Navy port,’ she had said. ‘The navy will know of your abduction by now, and will be looking for you most anxiously.’

‘If you can go about in disguise, then so can I,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I will wear a powdered wig, shave my beard, cut off my hair. This is all easily done. I want to go with you, it makes me nervous to think of you swanning about town with only a maidservant for protection, though I know how tough you are.’

‘How chivalrous of you, Jon Snow,’ she had smiled sweetly, then her pretty face threatened a scowl. ‘But I am quite capable of gutting any fool that tries to molest or waylay me, and I won’t hear of you shaving that beard off, or cutting your hair. The very idea makes me cross, so don’t you bloody try it.’

‘You can’t keep me here as your bedwarmer forever,’ he grumbled. ‘I am a man of action, I need to be doing something useful other than just fucking you.’

‘I know that, and I will not deny you, when the time is right,’ she said in a softer tone. ‘I have been rather selfish, keeping you to myself, but it is not smart to sneak into Bridgetown with me, when the tale of our attack and your disappearance is so fresh.’

There was logic to her words, so he tried not to sulk too much as she disappeared into her dressing room to decide on an appropriate disguise, but still he fretted for her safety. Years of conditioning that a woman was not capable of defending herself against threats was difficult to shake, despite being skilfully attacked and abducted by the woman herself, and when he wasn’t being diverted by the pleasures of her honeyed flesh he was a little restless. He would explore the island in her absence, venturing out armed in case of threats from jealous and sceptical pirates. A good fight would do his spirits a world of good, if it could not be sensibly avoided. He hated to be thought of as some pretty lad only kept around for the queen’s amusement.

He had only a length of indigo dyed cotton wrapped around his waist, and he was still wet from the bath which had momentarily cooled his skin. The air was drowsy and still but for the chirring of insects outside, the heavy movements of the lizards under the floor. His lids fluttered as he contemplated another nap in the crisp sheets, but his lady was leaving with the tide so he fought the urge, sitting up and parting the gauze curtains, the corner of his mouth lifting when he heard the rustling of fabric and a string of oaths from the small alcove.

‘Surely your boy’s outfit doesn’t require that much cursing to put on?’ he called out in enquiry, now curious as to what Dany was up to in there for so long. Since Dany the Pirate was notorious, and some were wise to the fact Dany was a woman, when she went to Bridgetown to buy cloth, food, tools and fripperies they could not produce on Dragonstone, she slipped in and out, usually disguised as a young lad, her companion Missandei at her side, both her maidservant and cunning advisor.

There was a swishing noise, the pad of feet across the bare teak boards. ‘I am trying something new this time, and I thought I would show it to you before I pack it away,’ she replied, a sultry tone to her voice that heightened his interest in proceedings. He looked up at the figure stepping out into view, quite forgetting his sullen mood. Whenever he was in port, whether the colonies or home in England, starved of the sight of women, their hidden curves, their masses of hair, their melodious voices, he would see ladies in fine gowns and follow them with needy eyes, his idle, lonely thoughts dwelling shamelessly on what lay beneath all those ridiculous skirts.

The sight of her gave him that same hunger, swathed in a gown wholly unsuited to her earthy, pragmatic nature, but still instantly arousing. It was virginal white, with pink embroidered flowers, layers and layers of petticoats holding the skirt out wide, a saucy pink parasol to complete the ensemble, her dainty feet peeping below the hems, and her lovely breasts lifted and spilling above the corseted bodice. He felt a rush of saliva fill his mouth like he was a thirsty hound, and he swallowed, his words clumsy and gruff. ‘And how many blades have you got hidden under all that?’

She smiled wickedly, the contrast to her innocent maiden gown stirring him further. Her silver hair was tightly braided around her head, presumably to be hidden by a wig or hat, the gold-tinted skin of her bare shoulders and nearly bare breasts giving him the strong urge to seize her and cover it with whisker burns, and perhaps a bite, so that any man that looked at her in town knew she was taken. ‘Why don’t you come here and find out, very carefully. I don’t want this bloody thing all crumpled.’

He knew he could not be careful, but he rather enjoyed the searing burn of her temper, so he rose and stalked towards her, all too eager to despoil the deceptive ladylike image she was attempting to assume. He gathered her up, letting the cloth around his hips slither to the floor so he was naked and hard against the layers of muslin, his hands roaming freely as he took her mouth in a sucking kiss, earning himself a happy sigh, the parasol hastily dropped to the floor so she could grab him in turn.  

Her breasts were easily scooped out of the corset, soft and weighty, her nipples flushing the same pink as the flowers on her bunched skirts. He found one knife down the back of her corset, and another strapped to her thigh in a holster as his hand burrowed beneath her skirts. At his grunt of amusement, she smiled under his greedy lips.

Satisfied at the discovery, his mouth trailed down to taste and then nip sharply at a rosy nipple, her neck arching with her throaty moan of reaction. His hand found her bare and damp beneath the infuriating layers of skirts, silky curls and slippery petals and then taut inner muscles closing around his fingers. ‘I want to fuck you in this dress,’ he whispered into her warm, sweet smelling flesh. ‘I assume that was the purpose of showing me it.’

‘It might have been,’ she breathed. ‘You’re always calling me my lady, so I thought I’d oblige. Let’s see how far you get with ravishing me before I stab you in the leg.’

She never failed in her attempts to wring a laugh from him, and at his chuckle her smile widened. ‘I will take that challenge, and gladly,’ he rumbled, his fingers pushing deeper in her ever-eager cunt to make her gasp and blink in a fall of long lashes, his other hand wisely slipping the knife from its sheath in case she was serious. His cock throbbed and nudged at her skirts, seeking the fastest route to where she was tight and hot and soaked, evidently not bored of servicing her yet, despite being inside her more times than he could count. His new life was a blur of the base senses, touch and taste, the flavour of her cunt as tart and addictive as the tropic fruit he gorged himself on.

Her small, warm hands were tugging at his length skilfully and kneading his bottom, and he pulled at her nipples roughly, leaving them as hard as cherries, her little gasps and cries increasing the pitch of the buzz in his ears. At the sudden twinge in his balls he groaned and picked her up in a waterfall of fabric, her breasts against his face, her hands flailing at his shoulders as she began to put on a good show of resistance. ‘No, oh no you beast, unhand me…’ she whimpered, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or growl. Smiling despite his dark intentions, he threw her on the bed, pleased at her indignant expression, then flipped her over on her front, crawling up behind her to lift her skirts over her head, pinning her struggling figure fast to the mattress with the fork of his legs.

He lifted his arm to land a hard slap on her plump arse, and she shrieked at the blow, her left buttock flushing as pink as her cunt, and she fought him harder. Another slap, and another, and he heard a throaty moan, her arse lifting in invitation. His cock was heavy and achy, his blood racing, the sight of her thrashing beneath him, her bare arse and glistening cleft and dishevelled skirts as intoxicating as opium. He wanted to fuck her so hard she was marked by his scent and touch, so her legs shook as she walked away from him, so she would think of nothing else but him while she was away on her mission.

She was as exquisite and wanton as the most highly prized whore, and so stroppy and fearsome she was downright intimidating, and it was turning him into a madman as he had anticipated, but Christ, he was enjoying every minute. He wasted no time in taking what he wanted, lifting her hips so she took every inch of his cock in a single thrust, her shocked cry merging with his guttural groan as the taut clasp of her cunt resisted to the point of discomfort. But when he was nestled inside her, rocking gently to open her up, she began to keen and wriggle, her creased face softening and her body relaxing to flow like water under his hands.

It had not taken him long to establish the way she liked it, which was rough and demanding, and after his initial guilt he had embraced it, leaving her raw and sore, a quivering wreck in the aftermath, his seed slipping down her thighs and her blue eyes glazed and dark with dilation. Often she would take her turn and ride him ragged, but she became very undone when he dominated proceedings, almost as if she needed the physical outlet, so he gave it to her, near forcing her flat to the bed with the power of his thrusts, losing himself in the close stroke of her drenched flesh along his length until his balls began to tighten in warning.

He slipped a hand beneath her to find her neglected clit, catching it between finger and thumb and rolling it, then circling it rapidly, increasing the pitch of her helpless cries until he felt her start to flutter around him. He took both hips again and slapped against her presented bottom sharply, hitting the back of her cunt with a series of growls as she screamed for him and let it go, the gentle flutter turning to a clenching that milked him dry. His release was a burst of heat in his loins, a pulse of light in his empty, echoing mind, and his breath fell in sobs as he held her trapped against him until his hands slackened and she fell on her face in a rustle of crumpled skirts.

He had filled her with his seed, it spilled from her swollen centre as he carefully withdrew, leaving her a mess that he would clean with care lest it stain her gown. When he found the use of his legs he got up to fetch a wet cloth from the driftwood washstand, returning to wipe her soft inner thighs and cunt carefully. She purred and stirred at his touch, one eye opening to regard him with what looked like fondness.

‘Don’t get into any trouble while I am away, Jon Snow,’ she murmured. ‘Damn you and your pretty face and pretty cock. I’m already going to miss you. Don’t make me worry about you as well.’

‘I will do my best, my lady,’ he said dryly, feeling his racing heart soften despite her spiked words. ‘If you promise me you will do the same.’

***

Venturing into large towns to purchase supplies was always a chancy business. Disguised as a boy, she could never manage to buy much unless she took several companions with her, increasing the likelihood of discovery as pirates were prone to slip off to taverns to roister and find women. Disguised as a lady with assumed slaves to carry her purchases she had to take a circuitous route using a packet boat from Martinique or another island the navy did not control, making the trip much longer. She was also more likely to face questions or propositions. So, she went armed and evasive, avoiding being cornered by leering men or bored ladies bent on inviting an exotic stranger for tea and cakes.  

She was on edge the whole time she was in Bridgetown, letting Missandei posing as her lady’s maid do most of the talking and haggling but keeping her ears open for news of her pirate gang and its latest adventures, and the disappearance of Lord Commander Snow from his flagship. She didn’t learn much in the busy market other than most still thought Dany the pirate was a man, which pleased her, so they retired to a better class of tavern for a meal in a private room, Missandei roaming the taproom below to pick up gossip from sailors and navy men as she picked at her dinner and brooded.

After spending so much time shut away in each other’s company, it felt decidedly odd and lonely to be without Jon Snow. Despite boarding her ship bow legged and sore, it did not take long before she was craving him like a plant deprived of light and air, and she worried what misadventures might occur in her absence. Most of the pirates enjoyed a good fight and were quick to resent a newcomer, especially a very attractive one favoured by their queen. Though she knew Jon was a lethal swordsman, there was always the danger of an ambush by a pack of bored lads not thinking of the deadly consequences if she returned to find him harmed.

It wasn’t part of her plan, if she had one. She had snatched a beautiful, intriguing man on impulse, hoping he would prove himself a diverting and skilful lover, and he was deliciously skilled, after a shaky start. But she hadn’t expected to care for his wellbeing, fret over his moods and his touchy pride, to think of ways to make him happy and more settled in his new life. But much as she was vexed at herself for feeling this way, she was longing to get back to Jon as quick as she could manage. It was too late now to repent her folly. He was hers, she would not think of letting him go, and as such she owed him the privilege of knowing more of herself, as dangerous and painful as that was.

She scratched at her itchy, sweaty hair under her wig and fashionable hat, and wriggled her legs under her heavy skirts, thoroughly uncomfortable despite the evening breeze through the balcony doors. She grabbed for her glass of wine and drank it down, savouring the rare, expensive treat of Rhenish on her tongue to distract herself. She was on her second glass when there was a discreet knock and Missandei slipped inside, plainly dressed in the clothes of a house slave but still lovely and distinguished, her calm face alight with gleaned information.

As her friend sat and poured herself a glass, she began to talk in bursts. ‘The Commander’s ship, the _Queen Bess_ , came into port four days ago. The navy is asking questions of the crew about the attack, and the disappearance of Lord Snow. It is a good thing he did not come with us, my queen. His face and manner is so distinctive they would have picked him up and chucked him in the brig for questioning instantly.’

It was always pleasant to be proved right, but she felt a qualm of misgiving. To attack the navy so brazenly had been unwise. They would be out for vengeance, and looking hard for their lost officer, and many of the crew had seen her clearly during the attack. It would not be long before Pirate Dany would become what she was, a mere woman to round up, mock as a whore and hang in a righteous fury, like Ann Bonney and other notorious female criminals of the past. They must finish their business here and go, and find another port to visit for supplies on their next trip. ‘What else did you hear down there?’ she said with nonchalance, swallowing more wine quickly.

Missandei’s face twisted with hatred. ‘Ramsay Bolton and his gang have been attacking shipping off the coast of Hispanola. They abducted a planter’s wife and daughter and all their slaves. They are all feared dead or resold. The navy has sent Commander Snow’s old fleet after him, and I hope they blow the loathsome shit out of the water.’

She felt a rush of her own loathing stir her blood. Ramsay was the cruellest and most feared pirate in the Indies. She had longed for years to go after him, set his motley ships alight and string him up from his own yardarm, but his gang was sizeable, fierce fighters all, and so far she had hesitated to take him down. The tale made her temper boil under her ladylike surface, and her hand felt for her trusty knife under her skirts.

‘One day I will leave his rotten rapist guts spilled on the floor,’ she vowed. ‘I don’t like any of this news. It’s best we leave here early in the morning and take the boat back to Martinique to rendezvous with the _Drogon_. I am longing for home.’

Her friend shot her a considering look. ‘You are pining for Lord Snow, I think,’ she said lightly. ‘You have been quiet and broody these last few days, and I am sure I’ve heard you sigh longingly a few times in bed.’ It was the truth, she had been unable to resist touching herself, longing for his plump mouth and long fingers caressing her cunt, the thickness of his length held inside her, the tickle of his raven curls on her breasts and belly. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass as she itched for his silky cock wrapped in her hand, to be guided into her wet channel. She smothered a groan behind her lips.

‘He’s not a lord,’ she said dismissively, shaking herself to banish her welling lust. ‘A silly navy title he doesn’t much like. He’s the bastard son of an English lord, from some wretched cold place in Yorkshire.’ Like herself, her lover was cagey with revealing too much about himself, not due to a life full of subterfuge and potential peril, but because he was a quiet sort. She also suspected his life had not been full of love and mirth, despite his comfortable upbringing. ‘I hope he’s staying out of trouble,’ she muttered. ‘I set Grey Worm to keep an eye on him and show him around, but I know there will be a few braggarts who will have a go at him because they don’t like his face.’

Missandei smiled wistfully. Grey Worm was her childhood sweetheart, they had both been slaves at her father’s plantation and abducted along with her person by her dead husband Drogo. ‘Neither of them are great talkers,’ her friend observed. ‘I expect they will grunt at each other a lot, but Grey Worm will guard him well if you asked it of him. What do you think they will get up to?’

‘Hopefully something useful, like fishing,’ she replied, rolling her eyes, and finishing her drink with a gulp. ‘And I hope they have the good sense to stay away from the distillery. If I get home to find that handsome face carved up I will have the bloody idiots staked out for the tide to take them.’

***

The rowboat drifted in the gentle current, requiring the occasional fumble at the tiller to keep it from knocking into the reef that encircled the deep blue hole where they were fishing. He was alone, shaded by his absurd sunhat, yanking the odd fish up to add to the pile when there was a bite at the line, his taciturn companion as graceful and quick as a seal as he hunted around the reef edge with a spear. Grey Worm seemed able to hold his breath for a full minute and navigate very well underwater, making him envious and wishing he could do the same, and see more of the wall of bright, intriguing corals that flickered into sight whenever the swell shifted.

The morning after Dany’s departure the former slave had appeared on the porch, his stony face unreadable but a few words offered. ‘I will show you the island, Jon Snow,’ he said in a deep voice with a hint of slave accent. ‘Queen says you want to be useful, so we will go visit village.’ He shrugged, and went to dress and don his swordbelt for protection, a knife tucked into his boot, now getting rather scuffed without spit and polish, and followed the man to a large clearing in the jungle, a group of Africans eyeing him curiously as he appeared in their midst.

He spent a few days helping to split logs and shape blocks of coral to build more huts for the growing population of freed slaves, barely understanding a word of the thick patois they used to communicate with each other, but strangely at peace, the mindless labour giving his idle muscles a good workout and leaving him so tired he fell exhausted into bed at nightfall. The mamas grew fond of him, feeding him platefuls of strange island food and patting him familiarly, the few children tugging at his hair and touching his fair skin with fascination. One mama had tutted over his sweaty, reddened face and presented him with a hat woven with reeds, which made him look a right fool, but he hardly cared as Dany was not there to giggle. The men began to relax around him, their suspicious looks replaced by approval when they saw how hard he worked.

Today there was no work to do, so he asked Grey Worm to take him out to the reef, and as he lazed in the boat his mind drifted with the current to his lover, a frown of worry creasing his brow. She had been gone a week, and should be due back any moment. He was longing to see her, to confirm she was safe, and for other reasons, not merely physical.

 He did not expect to miss her as badly as he did, a nagging pain in his heart and a growing ache in his loins as time went on, pining for her small, soft body curled against his, the bubbling sound of her laughter, her wide smile breaking across her face like the morning sun rising above storm clouds. His new friend was less voluble than even he, but he had used the opportunity to gain more information about the Pirate Queen and her fascinating past. He had learned that Grey Worm and Missandei came with her from her father’s plantation, mixed race children who were her childhood companions, snatched along with the lady herself during a raid on a packet boat by the dread pirate Drogo.

‘Daenerys was frightened,’ Grey Worm had said slowly. ‘When brought to this island she cry a lot and hide, but then she began to yell and fight back and learn to be smart. She was very brave, and made husband and pirates love her. When Drogo die, all the men decide to follow her.’ The brief tale made him thoughtful, pity for the innocent girl she was mixed with admiration. She may deny she was a lady, but she had been one once, and had learned through experiences no gently born girl should have to face to be something more, an iron-willed queen with a filthy mouth and lightning fast wits, and a thirst for justice. Perhaps the choice he had made, based on mere lust and dissatisfaction with his empty existence, had not been so stupid.

There was a splash as Grey Worm surfaced next to the boat, throwing a string of fish and his spear over the side before hauling himself up in a coil of lean brown muscles. He picked up the canteen of water and offered it to the man to clear his mouth, and without speaking he took the oars and began to row them out through the narrow slot in the reef, guessing they had enough fish to return to the beach.

When they had launched there had been few men at the distillery, but now the tables were crowded with drinkers, some looking up at the rowboat approached the sand. As they grounded he shed his hat, fed his swordbelt through the loops of his grey breeches and leaped nimbly onto land, helping Grey Worm drag the boat out of the reach of the tide, shooting anyone who was staring a glowering look. His thick curls were drawn tightly away from his face in a queue, and his new clothes made him blend in more than his officers attire, his longsword displayed prominently in warning, in case someone was contemplating having a pop at him.

‘I have a thirst,’ he said briefly to his companion, who cursed and followed him up the beach, leaving the fish to bake in the sun.

‘Queen would not like you drinking here,’ Grey Worm grunted. ‘She say you should stay away from the bar or Jon Snow get into trouble.’

‘Bugger that, I’m not afraid of a pack of scurvy knaves,’ he said with ill-advised bravado, but keeping his voice low, Grey Worm’s eyes narrowing in vexation, the man sticking to him like a shadow as he entered the bar and called for a bottle of rum. They took a place on a bench occupied by some of the men from the village, and he relaxed a little at the nods he received, popping the cork on the bottle and taking a swig, the raw liquor stripping his throat with the burn but hitting his stomach pleasingly.

Two men got up to go see to the boatload of fish, and their places were filled by a handsome white man burnt near as brown as an African, with dark hair, blue eyes and a rangy figure that looked capable of quick aggression. He took an instant dislike to the man’s knowing smirk, but turned his head away in dismissal, taking another big sip of rum, his sword hand flexing against his thigh in impulse. Some of the rowdy talk around the tables subsided, and he felt eyes on his back, heard a mocking laugh from behind the bar where Bronn was watching.

‘I have heard that you have supplanted me in the queen’s affections,’ the stranger drawled. ‘Beware, you pretty navy tosspot. I have been known to cut the cock off my rivals.’

‘Don’t talk shit, Daario,’ Bronn called out disparagingly. ‘She threw you aside ages ago when she found out you have a tiny todger.’ There was a wave of guffaws at the riposte, and he bristled at the newcomer, his hand going to his sword hilt under the table, tensing to spring.

‘She seemed to enjoy herself well enough at the time,’ the man said with a lascivious look. ‘As this sunburnt English toff knows by now, our queen is a demanding woman, and very vocal.’

This was an outrage, he leapt to his feet, glaring at the man, who rose instantly in response, his hand going to the gilded hilt of his cutlass. Annoyingly, the pirate was taller than him, and likely more accustomed to fighting dirty, but he would tolerate no more disrespectful words from his lips.

‘I know you are no gentleman, but you will not speak of the lady in this manner,’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘If you don’t shut up, I will cut you into collops, you insolent cad.’

There were a few whoops at the prospect of a fight, men rising to their feet in a scrape of benches to get a good view, the Africans at his table rolling their eyes, Grey Worm’s face creasing in a weary look as he stood up in a fluid move and grabbed at a knife embedded in the table.

 He danced backwards as Daario withdrew his blade from it sheath, and he drew his own blade, half a length longer than the pirate scum’s weapon and wicked sharp with careful tending. It was hundreds of years old, the sword bequeathed to him by a family friend, but was deadly enough to slice a man’s arm off in a single blow.

He sensed bodies approaching him from the rear, either to watch or ambush, but he had no time to consider them now, taking a two-handed grip on the pommel and settling in a ready stance, luring the rude oaf towards him before he darted out as swift as a snake and landed the first blow, the familiar ring of steel music to his ears.

His opponent tried to force him backwards into a table to trip him up, the cheaper steel of his cutlass grinding against his tempered medieval blade. The muscles in his arms bunched, and he threw himself forwards with a feral growl, sending the man reeling backwards with several blows into a gaggle of gawkers, the point of Longclaw held at his bobbing throat. ‘Apologise,’ he grunted. ‘You will apologise for besmirching our queen’s name in front of these men, or I will cut your skinny legs out from under you.’

The men behind Daario’s crouched figure were grinning widely, but none moved to help, but he knew it could all explode in a flurry of fists and blades in a heartbeat, if they decided it was a good opportunity to have a go at him and all he represented. He took a deep breath, knowing he needed to disarm the man quickly and make an exit. He had been drilling with a sword since he was six years old, needing the physical outlet for all the frustrations of his confusing and painful childhood, encouraged by his kindly father, and he knew many tricks to leave an opponent defenceless.

He let his blade fall, a feint that encouraged an undisciplined lunge forward, Daario’s face creased with hatred, and he retreated one pace before twisting his blade in a tight curve, knocking the cutlass from the man’s hand and letting the point of Longclaw graze across the man’s breeches until he saw a line of blood blossom, a red arrow to the unimpressive bugle at his groin. There were more excited yells from the watching men, and his sneering opponent blanched and froze.

‘Apologise,’ he hissed again, the hackles on his neck rising like an enraged wolf. ‘Or I will cut your tiny todger off and feed it to the sharks.’

 

To be continued...


	5. Chapter Five

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_A/N: Hello, pirate smut fanciers. Decided to take a break from Westeros and enjoy some fun candyfloss writing involving pretty scenery and sunshine in homage to my upcoming island holiday in Vanuatu. Chapter incorporates a Tumblr prompt involving skinny dipping. Enjoy, feedback appreciated._

_New and beautiful mood board provided by **Justwanderingneverlost** , who is ridiculously talented and always has something ready for an update, am so lucky xxx_

She was embarrassed at the impatience she felt crawling under her skin, from the roots of her braided hair to her booted toes. She tried to hide it behind a mask of indifference as she surveyed the oncoming shoreline, the men straining at the oars, the rising swell sloshing rhythmically at the sides of the row boat, but her feet shifted, her fingers flexed, her gaze bounced, and Missandei noticed her fidgeting and eyed her indulgently. ‘I am sure he’s fine,’ she said discreetly. ‘If you’re fretting so much, perhaps you should consider taking him with you the next time you leave on a mission?’

She wasn’t just fretting that Jon Snow had gotten into trouble in her absence, she had missed him terribly, but she was reluctant to admit that to anyone, especially not the man himself. ‘Perhaps I should,’ she said absently, her brow furrowing as her view of the distillery sharpened. The bar was normally a riotous scene of drunks at this time of day, but it was oddly quiet, just a few bodies slumped at tables, one on the ground, disordered benches tipped over, a few bottles lying in the sand. ‘What the fuck has been going on here?’ she snapped, standing up in the boat quickly and nearly falling as the keel ground over a sand bar. Not waiting to be properly beached, she leapt nimbly over the side, her boots submerged in water. Thank the sea Gods she was no longer wearing that stupid gown.

She strode out of the gentle waves in a righteous fury, making a beeline for the distillery on the level sand above the beach, her angry eyes sweeping over the groaning, bleeding men in various heaps, Bronn sulking behind the bar, Grey Worm stepping forward with a forbidding scowl on his normally stoic face. ‘Did you bloody idiots have a fight?’ she snarled. She shuddered when she recognised her old lover Daario as the man on the ground, bleeding and clutching his groin protectively. Taking him to bed had been a momentous folly, and it irked her that he was still part of her gang, but he knew too much of their secrets to banish him from Dragonstone.

‘Jon Snow had a fight,’ Grey Worm growled. ‘He took offense and defeated this fool, and then other fools decided to join in. I had to jump in and help him, otherwise they stab him in the back.’

‘Took offense at what?’ she groaned, toeing the hunched man on the ground with her wet boot dismissively.

‘Something about defending queen’s honour,’ Grey Worm grunted. ‘This one insulted him, and you. Was good fight, no one dead, only shamed.’

Caught between feminine disdain and a silly glow of pleasure at the tale, she eyed the various men nursing wounds. All seemed superficial and not likely to put them out of action for long, and their chastised, fearful looks at her scrutiny were gratifying. ‘Men,’ she sighed. ‘What I am I to do with you horrible lot. Did Jon do all this damage?’

‘I had to stab a few,’ Grey Worm shrugged. ‘Jon Snow stagger off with bottle of rum. He not bad injured, but someone cut his face up some.’

‘Who?’ she snarled with a fresh wave of temper, her spine stiffening so she was five feet two of pure bristling indignation. ‘I will stake out the bastard on the mudflats for the bloody crabs!’

‘Calm, my queen,’ Grey Worm said in a more soothing voice. ‘Difficult to tell, was a big fight at the end, many men punching and stabbing. Punish them all equally, this one says.’

It was sound advice, so she opened her mouth to start snapping orders. She had learned early on to use her tongue as a weapon as well as the threat of her blades and pistols to keep her unruly men in line. She was a woman, and a tiny one at that, only sheer force of will and fast wits kept her followers subservient. ‘All of you, get up. Get up now,’ she spat. With some whimpering and mutterings, the wounded men got to their feet, their eyes on the sand, Daario the last, hanging on to the side of the bar for support. It was more than satisfying to see him so unmanned by her new lover. The man was a braggart and a terrible fuck, but she didn’t necessarily want him dead. It looked like he was merely pinked in a few spots, and his unimpressive member was seemingly intact.

‘Everyone here is banned from the bar for two weeks,’ she declared. ‘And you are all assigned to the village to help finish building huts. No loafing, no drinking, no playing with yourselves. Go and see Mama Themba to get fixed up, and then go do some useful work for a change, or you will _all_ be staked out on the mudflats for the crabs to nibble.’

Knowing that Grey Worm and his men would see to her orders, she gave them all one last fearsome glower and turned away, stalking up the beach towards her headland haven, glad to turn her back on the mess and now more worryingly desperate to see Jon. She was very cross with him, but annoyingly she was all soft and gooey inside at what he had wrought, and why. When she found him, she doubted she would yell at him for long. She probably wouldn’t yell at him at all. Shamefully, she would likely just jump on him and ravage him, she was terribly predictable already, when it came to her lover.

When she reached the little white house, she found some of her purchases already unloaded from the ship and stacked neatly for storage, and her three pets scrambling out from under the porch to greet her, but no sign of life and movement from inside. Frowning, she spared the handsome lizards a few pats and scratches and crooned words of affection, then set off to look for a triumphant and bloody, and possibly tipsy Jon Snow.

It was another hot day, the air so sultry and thick it was likely heavy rain was due soon to settle the dust and fraying tempers. Sweat collected on her brow and between her breasts as she took the track to her private beach, the lowering sun making her squint and hold her hand to her eyes as she swept the half circle of crushed shells and coral for any sign of her man. There was nothing, only the dark shape of a large green turtle bobbing amidst the turquoise surf, the rare sight bringing a grudging smile to her lips before she turned away to continue her search. Turtles were good eating and were constantly hunted by the men and the former slaves, but she refused to eat any of their flesh herself, and no one was permitted to hunt them on her headland.

There was one possible place she could check, a secret spot she had not yet shown Jon but he might have found in his explorations in her absence, so she crossed the meadow and entered the jungle, pushing through branches and vines, stepping carefully over straggling roots. The island was volcanic in origin with a ring of old coral rock, cut and channelled with underground springs which were fed by a mysterious source of freshwater, some heated by the simmering mountain on the far side. Hidden in the jungle was a wide pool of green-blue water, known only to herself and the dragonflies and birds that flitted across its surface.

As she broke through the thicket, the sweat now running down her face, she heard a splash and churn of water, and her vexed expression smoothed to a small smile. Quiet as a cat, she advanced across the stony ground, the forest clearing a brimming cup of golden light from the afternoon sun, the pool a dazzling blue fringed by flowering shrubs. A massive green dragonfly zipped past her, a red and yellow parrot fussed from a branch, the jungle was alive with the buzz of insects and the twittering of birds, but her eyes were drawn immediately to the centre of the pool, her heaving breath catching in her throat and closing it fast.

As yet unobserved, she admired him at her leisure, desire thrumming in her veins and settling in the fork of her legs in a pool of warmth. As sleek and graceful as a forest creature he glided across the surface in a lazy crawl, all shifting and bunching muscles under his tanned skin, his gloriously tempting bottom rising above the water, his strong thighs and calves kicking skilfully. Her pasty white, grumpy, and awkward Englishman was now burnt brown but still exceedingly beautiful, perhaps more beautiful now he was relaxed and at home with his wild surroundings, his hair an inky cloud of loose curls she wanted twisted in her greedy hands, right now.

Moving fast, she toed off her boots, divested herself of various weapons, downed her moleskin breeches, and unhooked her red corset, letting her breasts fall loose with a grateful sigh. Her shirt pulled over her head, and she tiptoed forward naked, jumping feet first into the pool before Jon could spot her. The water hitting her sweaty, grubby skin and pulling her down into the glassy depths was pure bliss, and she groaned in delight as she surfaced, blinking to clear her vision, and spitting out a mouthful.

She was seized in powerful arms, nearly dunking her again until her flailing legs wrapped around his waist and gripped tightly. His kiss was soft, silken lips and tongue, an itch of whiskers, the taste of rum, she hummed in her chest happily, her cheeks and loins flooding with heat at the chocolatey eyes locking with hers from an inch away. ‘Are you going to yell at me?’ he murmured as he broke away, kicking slightly to keep them afloat. She got what she wanted, sliding her hand up his spine to yank a fistful of curls. There was a nasty curved cut above his right eye, another above his left that carried through to his cheek, giving him a rather rakish air he had not had previously. She kissed both of them, very grateful it was no worse.

‘Mmm no, I’ve got a better idea,’ she purred. ‘I hear you’ve been defending my honour. I would be an ungrateful wench if I yelled at you now, though what you did was bloody stupid.’ She gave him a quelling stare, and at his pleasing pout she relented and kissed him again hungrily, moaning in her throat as he yielded with a husky growl. He was already stiffening and swelling against her loins, and she squeezed him between her thighs to bring him closer. The bottom of the pool could not be reached with his toes, so he kicked to move them towards the bank, all the while nipping at her lips and then her throat. She was already in heaven, she would likely explode as soon as that obscenely pretty mouth went anywhere near her cunt.

The rock wall of the pool dug furrows into her back, his arms caged around her to hold them in place. She ground against his satisfying length in a sinuous wriggle, wanting him fully engulfed to scratch her maddening itch, but water was not conducive to fucking. They would hopefully continue this back at the house in a drawn-out torment of possession, but first she would have him the way he deserved for being such a stupid hero. He took her mouth in slow drags and sweeps of his tongue, a starved ache in her loins as she took it as a promise of later attentions, her breasts flat against his chest, a hand loosening the bank of the pool to dip down and cup and squeeze her bottom, parting her cleft to stretch her slightly.

At this, she squirmed and snapped at his fat lower lip, letting out a desperate moan. ‘Stop it, stop teasing me and get out,’ she panted, earning a quizzical look, a lowering of straight black brows narrowing his deep brown eyes to slits. ‘Sit on the bank, and let me take care of you.’ Realisation dawned, and his swollen mouth curled in an almost-smile that quite transformed his intent face, then his lids fluttered as she slipped a hand between their bodies and took him in hand, enjoying the weighty feel of him spilling from her palm. ‘Now, Jon Snow, or I will swim off and make you chase me.’

With a snort, he slipped out of her hands and to her left, grabbing hold of a flat rock and hauling himself out of the pool in a fluid and effortless move, water streaming down his coiled back muscles to drip down the curves of his arse before he turned and sat. He was as silent as the grave but his smouldering dark eyes spoke volumes as she approached, kicking lightly to move between his parted thighs, then securing herself with her hands on his narrow hips. She looked up as she opened her lips and took him deep into her throat, letting him see her struggle to fit him in, the taste of him salty and musky and divine. The cords of his throat were visible as he threw his head back and groaned at the heat and pressure, his hands threading in her hair to hold her trapped to serve him.

It would be quick, very quick, she could not hold this position easily and his cock was already taut and full and ready to erupt at the sight and sense of her sucking him down, her head bobbing as she attentively drew her lips from near the root to the plump tip in rough movements, swirling her tongue as she went. She compressed her cheeks to add pressure, stealing air through her nose, humming in contentment at his curses and grunts, glancing up at him with pleading eyes as if he was too much for her to take. His fingers pulled at her hair sharply, and he gave her a black look of pure selfishness as he hit the back of her throat, a look that made her throb and press her thighs together under the water.

Dear God, she needed him in her cunt, and soon, but if she made him come now he would have all the time in the world to fuck her from every angle until she broke into pieces, so she would keep going until he gave her his seed. She slid a hand beneath him to cup his balls, rolling them in her palm, her tongue flicking around the head of him firmly before she pushed forward again determinedly, taking near his entire length in her throat. He arched off the stone and cried out, a guttural noise that cut through the drowsy air, and she pulled back with a sob of relief as he filled her mouth in spurts, making sure he could see her swallow every drop.

‘Fuck…oh fuck,’ he rasped, his ribbed stomach contracting and relaxing in hard pants as she pulled back and wiped her mouth, his eyes on her face, black as night and utterly stunned, struggling to meet with hers. ‘Bloody hell woman, I thought my head was going to burst open.’

She smiled wickedly and kicked away from the edge of the pool, floating on her back for a while before she replied. ‘I expect you to do me the same turn, more than once. But not here, pretty lad. Take me back to the house where I can be comfortable.’ She floated closer, lifting her head to smirk at him again as he smiled bashfully at her, his somewhat sunburned face flushed a rosy pink, his lovely body a pile of slack limbs as he relaxed against the rocks in repletion. ‘No ants, no stones digging into my arse. Help me out like the chivalrous sod you are, and bed me well.’

***

On the trek back to the house, Dany held his arm like a lady he was courting and walking decorously with in an English park, rather than a bedraggled, wicked lass who had just devoured him whole and was now debriefing him on all she had learned during her trip to Bridgetown. The important details she imparted were not sticking in his contented mind, only a small qualm in his guts at the news the navy was looking for him and would likely hang him as a deserter if they found him hiding amidst a gang of scurvy pirates.

He was curious as to why she hadn’t bellowed at him yet for the fracas, as he _had_ been rather an idiot looking for trouble by stubbornly going to the bar, though the fierce fight he had put up would only do his reputation on the island some good. Despite the Pirate Queen’s steely exterior, perhaps her heart had softened toward him in her absence, his certainly had. He was so pleased to have her back he didn’t want her out of his sight, not even for the fifteen minutes she withdrew to wash in the outdoor tub with soap and warm water, leaving him lying fully dressed on the bed and dripping on the cotton sheets.

His idle thoughts drifted back to the night she had held a gun to his head and kidnapped him for her amusement, and he could find nary a flicker of resentment left in him. Life was too interesting, Dany was too interesting, and the fact that she was now beginning to trust him was encouraging. Perhaps he could test her limits in the best possible way, exact more pleasurable revenge for the way she had treated him, to their mutual enjoyment. She liked it more than a little rough, she liked to be held down and subdued, and the devil take him, he liked to give her everything she wanted.

At that thought, he moved to action, kicking off his scuffed boots and unwrapping his black and silver swordbelt from around his hips, studying it with a frown before detaching the sword and knife from its length. She may thump him for suggesting it, but the urge had crawled from a dark corner of his soul and stirred his sated loins anew. The stirring grew worse as she casually entered the house with not even a towel to cover her nakedness, the scent of frangipani soap and warm, soft flesh, the sight of her unique silver hair in a tangle down her back, her squeezable bottom and pert breasts and God help him, she had done something new below. The downy hairs of her cunt were trimmed back closely so her slit was exposed, making his mouth water with the urge to pull her whole between his lips.

She noticed the belt in his hands, and her blue eyes widened. ‘Are you planning to hit me with that, or tie me up with it?’ she drawled, as if either option was entirely acceptable. He should have known there was nothing he could do to shock her. Whatever he said or did either bounced off her or made her laugh, except in those brief moments after sex when she was soft and sweet and looked at him with a fondness that was as near to vulnerability as she would allow. He knew he was grumpy and prickly himself, his own way of keeping detached, but he wanted her to yield first.

‘I had a fancy to make you my prisoner for a change,’ he said gruffly, slightly mollified when she sucked in a breath and visibly twitched at the words. When it came to fucking, she was ever ready to yield. Her heart would come later, he had to be patient. Her lids lowered, and she studied him for a moment before shrugging, but when she came over and sat in his lap he could feel her thrumming with excitement under his wandering hands. ‘Do you trust me enough, I wonder?’ he murmured into her ear.

‘Tie me up, Commander,’ she replied pertly. ‘If I don’t like it, you will let me out, because you’re a gentleman, despite the cuts on your face and your brawling, and your lecherous intentions.’

With a chuckle, he turned them around, tipping her backwards against the feather pillows. Her smile was curled with challenge, her azure eyes sparkling. When he drew her arms up above her head, wrapped the supple leather around her wrists, and secured her to a railing of the headboard, she looked so alluring he had to pause to admire his work. She shifted with impatience, a toe poking him rudely in the groin. ‘You’re wearing too many clothes, Jon Snow,’ she complained.

‘You’re awfully demanding for a prisoner,’ he observed. ‘Perhaps I will just tickle your feet instead of giving you what you want.’

‘I will kick you in the face,’ she huffed, a dangerous glitter in her narrowed eyes, the way she looked when wielding a pistol or blade, but he wasn’t cowed. Very slowly, he drew the damp shirt over his head, then rose to pop the buttons on his breeches. As he wriggled out of them gratefully, his cock bouncing free and lying heavy and straight, he caught the scent of her arousal, a thick, sweet musk, and when he looked he found her plump and glistening. She was going to taste so good he would feast on her until she pleaded for respite.

She was so soaked it was like he was drinking her down, his tongue slithering easily inside her cunt, her folds suckled between his lips, her trapped figure thrashing so wildly he pinned her thighs to hold her still. And loud, so very loud it was a blessing there was no one about aside from the lizards and the birds. She was obviously so desperate to find release he did not draw it out long, knowing she had been holding it in since servicing him at the swimming hole, and he was a grateful man. He bent her legs back so her spine arched, splitting her cunt so he could see his ultimate goal, and the tighter hole between her cheeks that intrigued him but had not yet touched.

Her clit was so swollen it was hard under his swirling tongue, and he tasted a tarter gush of wetness as he worked her, her body taut and shaking like a leaf, the creak of leather as she strained against the belt. He wanted her tight when he entered her so he brought her to a screaming climax with only his mouth, which was soon enough, a wild fluttering that made him groan and clamp his lips around her to savour it, lapping at her clit as it spasmed until she sobbed at him to stop, please _stop_.

Her orgasm was still receding when he rose up on his knees, grabbed hold of her bound wrists for leverage and entered her, his cock squeezed close by her rippling channel, the burst of sensation at the base of his spine dragging a curse from his lips before he buried his face in her tits to muffle his profanities. Her heels dug into his arse, she keened and cried and put up a fearsome struggle, so scorching hot it was like being bathed in fire. He thought he could make it last for her, but the sight of her bound and completely undone beneath his relentless thrusts was too thrilling. His teeth found her neck and he bit her like a wolf subduing a doe he’d chased down, hoping to leave a purple bruise of ownership.

He needed to go deep, so deep he was knocking against her womb, so he scooped her twitching legs up and bent her in half, holding her ankles as he bore down with harsh lunges. Her eyes, so dilated there was only a ring of blue around the fat pupils, bulged in distress that only urged him on, using her like she was a captive lady in truth, and he a base monster bent on rutting with her as it pleased him. But it was all for play, to make her break and then coo like a dove in his arms afterwards, her drowsy voice and affectionate kisses assuaging his guilt at his violent treatment.

Her trust was hard earned, and despite her nonchalance earlier when she spied his belt he knew by letting him bind her she did trust him more than he’d assumed, and that revelation was a bright spark in a mind swarming with dark, single minded impulse to fuck her until the dull ache in his balls was relieved. He bent her further backwards until her feet met the headboard, the change in angle making her shriek and bite him when he leaned in to silence her. Usually she needed her clit to be touched to come, but as she tightened around his driving cock he sensed the rush and pulse about to grab onto him deliciously.

He slammed into her with a few vicious jabs, howling as he let himself go, emptying into her cunt as he had emptied into her mouth. He had thought himself drained then, but he had more to give, the jerk of his cock spilling lost in the waves of her second climax, so powerful it was like he was caught and tossed on a stormy sea. He felt himself disappear as if sucked down to the fathomless deeps to lie on the bottom in a pile of bones, and he was happy to drown, so mindlessly happy the sensation was entirely new, and very welcome.

***

She honestly believed she could bear no more, but after a brief interlude where he curled his wonderfully hard body around her trussed up, extremely lazy figure and cuddled her, dropping kisses on her face and rumbling pretty words about her beauty, he flipped her on her front and had her again. Afterwards, she was so sore and weak legged and gloriously drained she could barely move even when he released the belt from around her chafed wrists.

Freed, she eyed him incredulously, the soft, gooey feeling in her wary heart winning through and making her speak honestly. ‘I missed you so much it annoys me,’ she murmured, and to her relief, she was rewarded with a sweet, shy smile, and not a look of smugness which would make her regret it. The cuts on his handsome face were clotted and messy, so she frowned and kissed them again, finding an ounce of energy to drag herself off the bed in search of salve to tend to them.

She returned to the bed with two glasses of rum and lime juice, and a pot of salve the African women made from herbs and rendered grease for wounds that normally worked a treat. He glowered and growled as she dabbed it on the wounds like a pissed off pet wolf, which he usually resembled, with his prowling and prickly manner and watchful eyes. ‘Why do you have a white wolf as the pommel of your sword?’ she said curiously as she sat back and handed him his drink from the side table.

‘Like you and your dragons, I dream of wolves,’ Jon said absently. ‘I have always wanted to see one. They have been hunted to extinction in England, but some may still exist in the wilds of Scotland. I always dreamed of a white wolf with red eyes as a boy. It used to terrify me, but as I grew older he seemed like a friend.’

This was nearly as whimsical as her own girlish fancies which had led her to adopt three monitor lizards as her companions. At least wolves existed, whereas dragons were only a fable. ‘They have wolves in the Americas,’ she mused, sipping her own drink gratefully, cross legged on the bed at his feet, which were as elegant and attractive as the rest of his compact body. ‘Perhaps we will end up going there one day to escape the Royal Navy. They have thrown off the yoke of the British Empire and are forging their own path. We would be safe there, and perhaps it would be a good place to be free.’

‘Any place would be a good place with you, my queen,’ he said with a warm regard in his brown eyes that both alarmed her and comforted her. She tried to find a dismissive laugh, but she only smiled like a giddy girl. ‘I fear you would be too cold there though, and they have savages worse than your unruly pack of pirates.’

‘Ah yes, the natives,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Likely about as savage as the Africans that rushed to save your fine arse today at the bar.’ At this snappish reminder not to make assumptions, her still very English naval officer scowled, then chuckled deeply.

‘I consider myself chastised,’ he said ruefully. ‘However, I don’t fancy having a tomahawk buried in my skull, or yours. We will stay right here on Dragonstone for as long as we can manage.’

‘Do you consider it your home yet?’ she said carefully, eyeing him from over the rim of her glass. He frowned a little, then his brow cleared of furrows, and he spoke honestly.

‘I find myself somewhat at home, my lady. I no longer regret the choice you asked me to make. If you let me in to your counsels, and let me help you in your mission, then I will find it entirely.’

It was her turn to frown, for it was hard for her to trust anyone more than an inch. Especially a man she had invited into her haven, and had given over her body to. Usually such men were used until they no longer amused and were shown the door, but Jon Snow was different. So different she was caught on the hop, unsure what to do with the growing feelings he invoked in her. Usually tenderness made her snark and curse, but she liked the way he made her feel, even when he was grouchy and it set her to fretting to cheer him up. He was a huge inconvenience, and a weakness, but so pretty and diverting and noble and interesting it was a strenuous effort to keep her walls up around her heart, which had never known how to love, only a wary affection.

‘My mission does not call for scrapping with my men and putting them out of action,’ she sniffed at him, then as he scowled she let her smile show. ‘But what you did pleased me more than is sensible. The next time we leave to go attack a slave ship, I will have you along. You have proved yourself an able fighter today, as well as a gentleman beyond reproach where it counts.’

At his blossoming smile, a slice of gleaming white teeth amidst his very kissable lips, she added a cheeky riposte. ‘Please don’t ever be a gentleman in our bed, or wherever else you feel the urge to have me, but you may defend my honour on any occasion that calls for it.’


	6. Chapter Six

 

_A/N: Sorry this took a while to update, have actual job involving payment in money, not comments, so I can only deal with updating one fic a week. In this chapter, the pirate marauders attack a slave ship, Jon and Dany get to know each other better through righteous piracy and the aftermath, and lovely smut. Since slave ships are a hideous subject and this is meant to be fun, I have kept the gory details to a minimum._

_Enjoy as always, I hope it makes you laugh and go for a lie down afters. Comments are appreciated, dedicated to the Tarts for keeping me entertained with smut this week._

_Actiony moodboard provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

 

It did not resemble the massive ships he had encountered while in the navy, but the nasty stench of packed, unwashed, and sickly bodies was the same. The _Ivory Coast_ , it was called, an evocative name conjuring up the mysteries and beauties of Africa; the peculiar animals he had seen only in books, it’s fascinating peoples, the wild landscapes of jungle and savanna, but the ship was mean and ugly, a rotting hulk that was an easy mark. Obviously a venture by small time entrepreneurs who were dabbling in the slave trade, it was a modified galleon, well battered by Atlantic storms on the route, and not much larger than the _Drogon_. ‘Hardly worth the bloody effort,’ the Pirate Queen sniffed. ‘But at least we will take it with ease.’

In the moonlit tropic night, it was grey and shapeless amidst the choppy swell, no sign of lookouts on the deck, only the swing of oil lamps, the flap of sails against the thicket of stars, the faint sounds of unhappy and uncomfortable people stashed below, not seen as people at all, but mere beasts of burden for the sugar plantations of Martinique and the smaller islands who weren’t choosy over the quality of slaves on offer. There was not a soul topside that was alert enough to notice the black ships that were closing in from port, starboard and stern, packed with restless, twitchy men spoiling for a good fight and any plunder they could liberate from their unimpressive quarry.

Just before he had left England, he had read in the London newspapers that the abolitionists in parliament were starting to gain momentum in their campaign for Britain to ban the slave trade, and his father Lord Stark had reported the same in his last letter, but when he had relayed this to Dany she had given an acid laugh, her pretty face twisted with cynicism. ‘There is much gold to be made on the backs of slaves. Even if the British find their conscience at last, there will be more greedy bastards to continue in their place, and more work for us.’

The routine she had explained to him during the three day journey to intercept the shipping route. All men manning the ship were considered the enemy and would either be killed in the fighting or placed in a row boat for the authorities to pick up as a warning. Like the Viking queen she was, she would then set the symbol of oppression to burn and sink beneath the waves as the dawn broke over the ocean. He looked forward to that part the most, picturing her tossing a flaming torch over the side of the stinking ship and then bellowing at the crew to cast off so she could admire her work from a safe distance.

The slaves would be coaxed to the three ships by their countrymen, the sick ones quarantined in the hold of the _Viserion_ and later, on the island. Once recovered, they were free to live their lives on the island in peace, or join the gang to help with the crusade. There was no profit in it, besides whatever coin and useful items that could be nicked from the slave ship. The complicated, dangerous action sprung only from her good heart, and an intense dislike of slavery which sprung from a happy childhood among the well treated slaves on her father’s plantation.

Much as he admired her nobility, and was excited about their first raid together, the logical part of him still wondered how long her campaign would last without serious repercussions. The men growing fat and rich on the profits of the vile trade were determined to see Pirate Dany caught and hanged, and though she was nonchalant about it, the prospect of his lover being caught and being unable to protect her from the hangman filled him with cold dread. He had tried to bring it up in quiet moments at the little white house with the red door that was now his home, but she was either grumpy with him, or changed the subject with teasing and beguilement that inevitably led to her lush, supple body under his, or riding him astride until he could barely think, let alone talk.

The ship was closing fast on the slave hulk on a wind from the south east. There were no lights on deck for stealth, but he could sense her in the gloom, a lithe figure armed with pistols and knives, her beautiful hair wound around her head in a hundred braids, the shapely breasts spilling over her bright red corset heaving with anticipatory breaths. His right hand reached for his sword, loosening it in its black and silver scabbard, then he checked the knife at his back, the primed pistol at his right hip. His belt and boots were old and comfortable, but he had new moleskin breeches and a flaring coat of black with pewter buttons that befitted his new job, more practical than his skimpy island attire and very fetching, his lady had lustily reported before ordering him to take it all off for her delectation.

Fearing he was growing rusty lazing about in bed enjoying Dany’s many charms, stuffing his face with tropical fruit and squiring his lover to various pleasant trysting spots around the island, he found the time to spar with anyone that would oblige him, Grey Worm and Jorah mostly, keeping his muscles honed and his aim true. As the slave ship drew closer and its side loomed up before them, he felt the adrenaline thrum through his veins at the prospect of battle, though his opponents were likely to be unkempt, unworthy mercenary scum, relatively easy to vanquish. At least he would have no need to worry for Dany’s safety, she had likely dealt to such foes many times with pistol and blade and emerged unscathed.

The slave ship was taller than the _Drogon_ by a few feet, but some pirates were nimble enough to step on to the rail and grab a handhold and swing over as the vessels were latched together by grappling hooks, some armed with rope ladders to sling over the side for the less able. There were drunken shouts and curses in foreign tongues from above as the first men hit the deck, more shouts from the starboard side where the _Rhaegal_ was hooked. Then he stopped listening and sprang into action, swarming up the nearest ladder ahead of Dany and dropping over the side in a roll, rising instantly with sword drawn, swinging it in a protective circle so she could land and recover herself in safety.

He lost sight of her in the melee, quickly surrounded by a foreign rabble in mismatched uniforms, the dregs from European ports but dirty fighters, knowing that no quarter would be given. Bodies were whirling around him in fierce duels, a phalanx of Africans punching and slashing through the tumult to get to the holds and calm the slaves with their own tongues as the fight to take control of the ship heated up. He spilled the guts of one man with boils on his face and greasy hair plastered to his scalp, then spun away to slash at the face of another, neatly slicing off his nose and leaving him howling for his _maman_ in French.

At the sight of one huge beast of a man barrelling towards him on the pitching deck he raised his pistol and shot him through the heart, wanting to save his sword arm the trouble, gratified by the thundering crash to the boards. Then he saw Grey Worm facing down two men who were hissing racial insults as he doggedly tried to get to the open hatch where women were screaming and men bellowing. He lunged forward to assist, stabbing one man through the back with a pleased grunt, and then stood aside to watch the other fall bloody to the filthy deck on the tip of a fishing spear.

The miasma of sweat and shit and gunpowder and fear was rank in his nose, and he sucked in several breaths reluctantly to steady himself. Grey Worm nodded at him once approvingly, then disappeared into the hold, and he dashed away in search of Dany, finding few men left to block his path to the bow of the ship. Behind him, the fight was dying down as mercenaries and sailors died like flies, and he could hear the pirates running amok in the topside cabins, searching for loot. Ahead of him, there was a pocket of men putting up surprisingly fierce resistance, including a man in a ratty captain’s coat and tricorne, shouting ‘whore’ and ‘bitch’ at the top of his voice, instantly making his hackles rise and lip curl in a snarl.

She was out of ammunition, with only old Jorah to protect her from the circle of leering men intent on bringing her down, but she faced them calmly, a blade in each hand, not a flicker of fear on her face though they were likely thinking of raping her in turns and throwing her gutted body to the sharks. With a savage growl, he leaped into the fray to defend her, though she would likely complain later. He knew his lover was as tough as old boots, but he could not chance the odds he saw before him.

‘Step away from the lady, you scurvy knaves!’

There were too many of them to take on at once, so he ran towards the smallest one, a swarthy man with a cutlass near bigger than himself, flicking the weapon out of his hand with his signature twist move and thrusting Longclaw in his face until he backed up in a hurry and went flailing over the side to feed the sharks himself. Supressing a wild laugh at the comical sight, he spun on his heel to slash at the arm of another, slicing it free in a fountain of blood, leaving the man screaming and easily pushed over to join his companion in the inky deeps.

His blood and ire were up, the lust to kill and maim bubbling in his hoarse throat, but he needed to get to his woman, a tiny figure dancing with outstretched blades, dwarfed by the two men that had her cornered against the rail. Jorah lumbered forward, stabbing at one man’s buttock in a distracting move so he wheeled around, baring wooden teeth, then there was one left, the disreputable captain, still shouting disgusting words at Dany, whose temper and nerves were beginning to fray, her blue eyes wide and dark in the dim light, her brow gleaming with sweat.

There was a shrill cry, and blood blossomed on her white shirt, and he lunged forward in a panic, thrusting his sword up and through the man’s torso with all his strength, just as her remaining blade found his eye socket and sunk deep. The reeking, fat pig sunk to the deck at last, twitching in death throes, and he was unsure whose weapon had brought his end, but he leaped over his carcass to get to her, reeling against the rail, blood streaming down her left arm. He scooped her up and bore her to the floor in his grasp, carefully searching for the wound and finding a cut six inches long and very nasty.

She sobbed in pain, her eyes hazy with it until she managed to focus on his face hovering anxiously over hers, her mouth curling in a weak smile as he held her closer. ‘My white wolf,’ she whispered fondly, her agony fading to the soft, girlish glow he had only witnessed after he had served her.

‘My dragon queen,’ he replied, dropping a gentle kiss on her lips before rising to carry her out of the scene of slaughter to safety and rest, a warmth in his belly that was stronger than the worry that drove his rapid steps. She was featherlight in his arms, her lids drooping like a child that had played rough games all day and needed to nap, and he knew then that he cared for her more than he had been willing to admit to himself, and she cared for him in turn. He had killed for her, and would do so again and again.

***

Damn him and his big doe eyes full of chivalrous concern, his unruly raven curls escaping from their knot and tickling her nicely, the stubborn line between his ink-stroke brows as she began to struggle in his grasp, mindful of her duties. There were still skirmishes on the ship, and there was a tumult from below decks where the islanders were busy unshackling the slaves and persuading them to come topside. ‘Put me down, I’m perfectly fine, and I have work to do!’

‘I will not,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going to drop you over the railing, very carefully. Mind that arm, it looks bad.’

She subsided, tucking her heated face against his shoulder as he hurried across the deck, dodging the bodies of the vanquished, struggling for mastery over her ire. It was downright rude to be grumpy with him, but when she saw him come to her rescue, a whirling dervish of focused fury, it was one of the finest moments of her eventful life, causing her to swoon like an idiot lady in need of smelling salts, a nagging ache in her heart that was ominous and distracting. The ache was still there, his blended scent of musk and sweat and blood adding to the weakness, and the unpleasant pain in her arm.

When he stepped up on a handy box and manoeuvred her carefully over the ship railing, shouting for a man to catch her from below on the _Drogon_ , she whined in protest and snuggled closer, hating herself for not wanting to let him go but clinging anyway. ‘Worry not, I’m right behind you sweetheart,’ he crooned at her, and she looked up, finding those eyes regarding her curiously, as if she had just revealed something astonishing, so she huffed and turned away. There was one of the African crew with arms outstretched, so she hooked her legs over the side, holding her bad arm to her chest as she was carefully lowered.

As she was caught she was jostled, and she hissed like a cornered cat and quickly leaped to the ground, Jon landing with a thunk of boots beside her. ‘Go to your stateroom and rest, I will fetch water and bandages, my queen,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument. She paused, nursing her arm and considering. There was much to do before they could depart for Dragonstone, but the rush of the attack was draining from her like she was pricked full of holes, and her arm hurt like a bitch, so she meekly went, the lure of the decanter of rum in her room helping her decision.

She had already downed her first glass, torn off her corset and empty belt and dropped her blood-soaked boots, and was sitting cross legged on the bed when he returned with a basin of steaming water and a box of assorted items. ‘The mamas need to tend to the sick slaves, but they gave me this to fix you up, and they will see to the wound in the morning,’ he explained, settling next to her after shedding his coat and detaching his weapons from his belt. He took a cotton rag and soaked it in the bowl, flicking his eyes to her. ‘Get that shirt off so I clean the blood off you.’

She gave him a sultry smile and shucked the stained garment, leaving her bare and mucky, but he wasn’t distracted by her tits as usual, a frown on his brow as he began to wash her down carefully. She cursed when the cut was revealed, quite deep into her flesh, but the blood had slowed to a trickle and it would not need stitches if the salve and bandages served her well enough. It wouldn’t be the first scar she had earned in her ventures, but her attentive lover tutted at it. ‘I hate to see your pretty skin messed up.’

‘The perils of having a pirate for a doxy, instead of a lady who does boring needlepoint and drinks tea and gossips all day,’ she said tartly, swigging more rum to dull the stinging pain as he began to smear salve along the wound.

‘You are _my_ lady, bloodthirsty minx,’ he murmured, a quirk to his mouth as he waited for a derisive response, but she only sighed and settled against the pillows, making him follow her in a crouch to finish his doctoring, a clean bandage wound tight around her arm and secured with a pin. The wound twinged and burned, and later it would itch, but at least she was clean and comfortable enough, enjoying the sight of her handsome hero tidying away the mess and pouring more rum for them both, his movements quick and graceful, his lovely hair in a disordered halo. He was covered in blood and grey smears of powder, but it only added to his allure, along with the thin red scars on his face that would soon fade to silver.

As she shifted to tuck a pillow behind her back, the bounce of her breasts drew his eye, creamy lids attempting to hide the flare of interest. ‘See something you like, Jon Snow?’ she purred. The old adage that fighting was closely tied to fucking was as true for women of action as it was to men, and their eyes locked, her empty glass falling to the coverlet, his following suit.

‘I cannot deny the sight of you stabbing a man through the eye got me mightily roused,’ he said dryly. ‘But no, you are injured, and I am a gentleman, as you name me.’

‘Ah, but I like it very much when you are _not_ ,’ she replied. ‘Besides, you’re a clever man, I’m sure you can make a plan that doesn’t involve me kicking you for hurting me in an unpleasant manner.’ She was feeling a little tipsy, her tongue thick in her mouth, her pain dulling as drink and desire pooled in her belly. Damn it all, she wanted him to hold her down and fuck her like a savage, annoyed they would have to improvise. She could finish the decanter so she was limp and giggly and felt no pain at all, but he would still be careful with her, no matter how much he smouldered intently and flicked his tongue at those lips that were made to be plundered.

Her aching heart, a palpable weight in her chest, the giddy surge through her veins, like the bubbles of champagne she had tasted only once, she knew what it was, though she had never felt it before. The stupidity of it she was well aware, in her job she could not allow herself any frailties, but God, the sweetness and lightness of it was so tempting the only way to banish it was a good hard seeing to, if only temporarily. It would be back to haunt her, unless she found the strength to keep the crippling emotions locked away.

Weary of him sitting there all gorgeous and gore stained, staring and doing nothing, she lunged forward, tangling her right hand in his curls and taking that gaping mouth in a sucking kiss, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip in demand. ‘Mmm, if you deny me, I shall go and find more scumbags to knife, I’m sure there is a few left to deal to.’

‘Oh no you don’t, you’re staying right here, even if I have to tie you up with my belt again,’ he breathed into her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your legs.’

_Ooh, that’s more like it,_ she said to herself. To show her appreciation, she darted her tongue between his lips, tracing the inside of them before delving further, her good hand busy pushing the billowy shirt off his shoulders to get to hard muscle. She had discovered in previous explorations that his nipples were a sensitive spot, so she dragged her thumbnail around them both to make him twitch before sliding her hand down the ribbed expanse of his belly, enjoying the tickle of fine hairs beneath her palm that led to an impressive bulge in his breeches.

As she handled it urgently he grabbed her hand and freed himself, and she pulled back a little to find chocolatey eyes growing darker with swamped pupils. ‘I want you to lie back, rest that arm and try not to hurt yourself. If you’re very good, I will give you everything you desire.’

He wanted her to relinquish control, to be the passive recipient of whatever he had in mind. The slickness between her legs was causing her breeches to cling and chafe, and she flushed under his scrutiny like an innocent virgin cornered by a voluptuary. He had already come a long way from that blushing, awkward dolt she had taken to bed and found deeply disappointing. She knew he loved it when she was meek and obedient, so she veiled her eyes with her lashes and fell back against the pillows, whimpering and feigning reluctance when he popped her buttons and drew the breeches down her legs, the scent of her arousal evident, her cunt plump and gleaming when he drew her clamped thighs apart.

Sensibly, she positioned a pillow under her useless arm, the dull throb of agony less distracting than the throb in her loins as he crouched, his plump, smackable arse in the air, still fully dressed down to his mucky boots, spoiling the silk coverlet. When she griped at him to take his clothes off first, he ignored her, leaning in to inhale before opening her with his thumbs. She was pink as a rose and evidently tasted good despite her recent sweaty exertions. He did not bother teasing her, diving to lick her from top to bottom in one sweep, burying his tongue inside where his thumbs held her open, probing her channel and growling.

Fortunately, there was plenty of noise up top, babbling and shouting and the shifting of bodies and loot to mask her appreciative moans and cries, and she felt no guilt at leaving her men to finish her mission, only selfish pleasure. She loved to watch him devour her near as much as the sensations he pulled from her with his mobile lips and deft tongue, the scrape of his whiskers on her nearly bare mound adding to the torment. Pruning her hair gave him better access to her sensitive lips, suckling at them with a groan and probing her deeper with his thumbs, then removing one to slip between her buttocks, circling her back entrance daringly.

The new exploration made her gasp in surprise at how good it felt, and he looked up at her in silent query, his tongue flattening over her clit in slow sweeps. She nodded, mangling her lips between her teeth, then hissed as the tip of his thumb penetrated her, the laps at her clit increasing in pace, spare digits pushing into her cunt. He eased it in, wet with her juices, burying it to the root and making her mewl and buck dangerously, but she felt no pain from her arm, she was too fiercely concentrated on holding herself back from climaxing. His mouth, his fingers, that thumb in her arse, it was all too much, along with the sight of him, wild curls and wet beard and obscene red lips and wilder black eyes.

She snapped, her body bowing disobediently off the mattress, arms outstretched, a wail of torment building and then releasing into softer cries as he caught her rippling release in his mouth, moaning at the taste and feel of her and digging teeth into her flesh as if feasting on it, fingers and thumb squeezed and released as they reached inside her to draw it out. She collapsed, whimpering pathetically and drawing her legs up to dissuade him from continuing. Every slick inch of her burned and quivered, she could bear no more, needing a few minutes of recovery.

Taking the hint, he rose up, passing a hand over his chin to wipe away the glistening dew on his neat beard. She sighed and spread her legs again, but he stayed maddeningly out of reach, pulling his shirt tails from his breeches and glancing at her through those enviable lashes as he fiddled with the clasp on his sword belt. She thought he was going to make good his promise, but he dropped the item to the floor, then unfastened his breeches under her avid gaze, bringing out his cock, which was paining him by the look on his face.

It was a stirring sight, to watch him handle his length in his palm, solid and flushed pink, a bead of moisture on the head as he drank her in and stroked himself idly, but it was far better to have her insides stirred by his deep thrusts, so she brought her free hand down to open her folds in blatant invitation. ‘Take those clothes off and fuck me,’ she breathed, writhing against the silk beneath her bottom. ‘I can’t feel a thing from my arm, but my cunt is empty and aching.’

‘You are the bossiest pain in the arse,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll regret it in the morning when you’re in agony.’ Despite his grumpy words, his mouth curled at her indulgently, and he got up, shedding boots and shirt and breeches quickly, his skin still milky where the sun hadn’t reached him, and hard everywhere, all muscle and jutting cock and taut, round buttocks. She wanted to crawl all over him like a horde of ants, tie his wrists to the bed and have him from every angle, but it would have to wait until she healed. She was to be arranged and used to his satisfaction tonight, a warrior slaking his lust on a willing victim.

‘You mentioned tying my legs up,’ she said innocently. ‘I think you might have to, or I will not stay still.’

‘You’ll wriggle about anyway, I know what you’re like with my cock buried in you, naughty wench,’ he husked, but he fished for the belt on the floor, settling on the bed and studying her dainty ankles, and the struts on the headboard. She tensed in anticipation, then his brow cleared and the leather strap was wrapped around her feet. Adjusting her arms as her legs were hauled upwards, she feigned protests to fuel his wicked intentions, wide eyed and shaking her head and whining as the back of her thighs stretched uncomfortably, trapped by feeding the loose ends of the belt through the headboard so her legs were imprisoned, ankles slightly apart so he could enter her with ease, her bottom canted at a high angle to receive him.

She could not move much, her body bent in half, her arms trapped beneath her, she could only quiver as his hands groped her arse thoroughly, parting her cheeks to tease her back entrance with glancing fingers, then taking his cock in hand to position it. Crouched over her, he grasped her legs and sunk balls deep with a groan of relief, her soaked cunt yielding to the thickness, her cries and small struggles signalling her elemental pleasure. He rutted within her viciously, giving her the friction and feeling of invasion she ever craved, and she watched him avidly as he let himself loose, bruising the back of her cunt with every lunge until her insides ached.

The room was hot and humid, sweat beaded on his brow and ran down his chest, his eyes black and blank as his focus turned to emptying his seed in her accommodating depths. She was no doubt a delectable sight, the queen all trussed up with her plump bottom raised, jarred with every slap against her buttocks, black leather cutting into golden skin, and it had turned him into a mindless beast, her desperation to release the building pressure in her belly expressed in sharp cries. She could not reach to touch herself and make an end, so she narrowed her senses to the pleasure of each thrust, her mind spiralling down darker paths to fuel her climax, thoughts that even her brazen self was reluctant to share.

There was fresh pain in her arm from her pumping blood and restless flailing, but then it was swamped by violent waves of climax. She was standing in a buffeting surf, trying to keep her feet but swept up and dragged in the swell, choked and blinded and deafened, oblivious to his grunts as he chased her into the deeps. Her name rasped in a long exhortation of breath made her eyes fly open, the blank look was gone, replaced by a glow she had witnessed during her rescue, not the glow of a man relieved of the need to come inside a willing woman after a good fight, but the glow of a man hopelessly in love.

When he released her from her bonds she would cradle him to her breasts with her good arm and ponder it carefully, whether she wanted to open herself to it as easily as she had opened her body, or continue to bat it away. She knew what was in her own heart, and she wondered whether she was any better at concealing it from his searching eyes. She suspected not.


	7. Chapter Seven

__

 

_A/N: I needed a good laugh and wanted to cheer up a mate in the process, so have a Pirate Queen update. It’s been so long that if you still remember this nonsense and like it, so sorry for being a lazy ass bitch (in defence, full time job, devoted husband and other fics to do etc). In this update, Jon goes undercover and isn’t very good at it (fandom salt was involved in writing this), and Dany is an angry female force of nature with interesting results. Enjoy, and feedback is delicious, amusing and appreciated highly._

_Dedicated to the Discerning Tarts, the bestest of mean girls who aren’t in the least mean, put up with my shit on a daily basis and aren’t bored yet. Sexy moodboard provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

They had sneaked in on a slack tide on a moonless night, all lamps extinguished, a shadowy ship hidden amidst stinking, confusing mangrove swamps jumping with fish and frogs and unidentifiable slitherings and sploshings from more sinister creatures. The skeleton crew rowed some distance upriver in careful silence, then moored at the landing dock of a friendly plantation run by an eccentric Englishman named Varys, a secret supporter of Dany, having freed all his slaves long ago, much to the disgust of his neighbours. One ship only, a covert mission that had his nerves already simmering. She had given him her trust, if not her love, and he did not want to mess it up.

Once on land, they scattered into the night, three small teams bent on gathering information and buying supplies, all in disguise as Jamaica was a Royal Navy port. They would not venture into Kingston, only infiltrate the smaller towns, but caution was needed. His lovely lady was now a cabin boy, swamped in oversized clothes to hide her curves, her hair hidden under a stocking cap and tricorne. She eyed him dubiously before she kissed him, whispered in his ear not to do anything stupid, and slipped away with Grey Worm and Jorah.

He was dressed as a sailor down on his luck, ratty old breeches and shirt and cracked boots, his own distinctive hair drawn into a tight knot instead of a queue or loose, a ludicrous eyepatch and a face smeared with dirt. Annoyingly, he was stuck with Daario as a companion, both sent to a taproom which doubled as a brothel where men were wont to frequent when they had coin in their pockets. They did not speak as they took horse down the narrow jungle trails to the small port with ramshackle docks, as prickly and quick to snarl and spit as a pair of tomcats. But they had a mission, and he would do his best to execute it, though sneaking about incognito was not his forte at all.

He did not want his woman to go off on her own on a dangerous mission, and it _was_ dangerous, seeking information on the vile Ramsay Bolton so the gang could plot an attack to halt his reign of terror on the seas. After a short, sharp quarrel which ended in a frantic, sweaty tangle in her bed as it usually did, she relented and said he could go along, and play the lusty, drunken oaf in a tavern and glean what pieces of information he could get. To ensure subterfuge was at least attempted, she had paired him up with Daario. The handsome sod was a master at lurking and plotting and cutting throats afterwards if necessary, even if he was not.

Once they had returned from their attack on the slave ship, it had taken considerable time to get the rescued slaves settled on Dragonstone, and Dany’s injured arm had grown inflamed and sore, forcing her to rest up for a few days until it began to heal. She made a poor patient, grumbling at the enforced bedrest, missing her duties and trying to entice him to lie with her and do anything but sleep and recover. When she wasn’t rebellious, she was strangely needy, crawling into his lap, petting his hair, looking at him with sea blue eyes full of feelings that had not yet spilled from her lush mouth.

Torn between concern, resentment, affection and his usual desire, frustrated that she would not yet speak of what he knew was in her heart, he was somewhat glad of the distraction when news came of another attack by Bolton on a village of freedmen on Hispanola, over a hundred people struggling to make a living on their own killed or captured to be resold, the women likely raped. It had been too much for the Pirate Queen, she had risen from her bed in a cold, focused rage and called a council of her ragtag bunch of subjects to try and hatch a plan to bring Ramsay down.

The odds were against them, and he was deeply worried about it, though he thoroughly approved of making an end to such a loathsome shit of a man and the disorder and misery he brought to the Caribbean. Doing bad appealed more to men than doing good, and as a consequence the Bolton gang was much larger, and supported by unscrupulous planters who bought their unfortunate captives. Their thirst for disgusting violence, torture and rape far exceeded the Dragonstone pirates, who were good natured thieves who preferred their male victims bested by a good fight not necessarily ending in death, and their female victims willing.

The night was sultry and close around them, mud underfoot from recent rains, the patch of jungle where they left the horses alive with the sound of insects and quarrelling fruit bats. He had been stolidly ignoring his companion, lost in his thoughts, so was startled when his sardonic voice floated through the darkness. ‘Be careful with yourself in this tavern, Lord Snow. I fear the women are too wild for you to handle, and I know they’ll be crawling all over you within an hour, with your pretty face and puppy eyes.’

He whirled around, standing to his full height, regarding the taller man coolly though his temper was rising, searching for a clever riposte. ‘The wildest woman in the Caribbean shares my bed, I won’t be distracted by some bosomy tarts. I’m here to gather information, not ogle and fondle tits.’

Daario’s face was barely visible under the shadow of the trees, but his voice was annoying enough. ‘If our gracious queen returns from the voodoo priestess’s house in the jungle to find your face buried in a pair of tits, I just hope I’m around to see it,’ he drawled. ‘Mind yourself, navy tosspot, and do try to copy me and be something you’re not. You’re too stiff, too posh and too pretty for this kind of work.’

He was tempted to draw his sword, which he had disguised with twine wrapped around the distinctive pommel and an uglier sheath and belt for this venture, but he settled for clenching his jaw, his voice the low rumble of a wolf’s growl in his own ears. ‘My lady is aware that the only breasts I’m interested in are hers, and I will not fail her. Now, enough bloody posturing, let’s get this over with, or I’ll geld you for certain this time.’

He said no more, his urge to hit the bastard in the balls at least itching in his clenched fists as he turned away, hearing a parting muttered insult at his back. He strode on ahead until the trees thinned to reveal a low-slung building constructed of wood and coral rock, quite tidy and well lit, the noise of raucous men and tittering women spilling out into the tropic night. Allegedly the establishment was owned by a lascivious dwarf who understood the needs of lonely seamen very well, and had grown quite wealthy providing for them, attracting sailors, pirates and navy men from all over the Indies to get pissed on strong ale and avail themselves of women.

Tyrion’s Tavern was the best place to get news of a clandestine nature, as when men were drunk they were wont to talk, and the whores were paid to listen as well as for their other parts. Inside, he ordered a large tankard of ale to nurse and found a corner to hide in and eavesdrop, avoiding gawping at the many pairs of tits of different shapes and colours that drifted past. Trying to clear his mind enough to snatch useful words out the air was difficult as the place was so noisy, but he heard some as he sat and sipped the brew cautiously. He had lost sight of Daario for the moment, which he was thankful for, giving his temper time to cool.

Men flayed alive and tied to the mainmast of Bolton’s flagship, a hidden lair somewhere off the coast of Antigua, a load of battered, traumatised captives bought by the worst plantation on Jamaica to work to death, white women kept as playthings. Dark deeds, dark words, his righteous indignation growing as his first tankard became two. The ale was cursed strong, and as tasty as a brew from Yorkshire, it must have been brought in from home, hence the great cost. It was so delicious after weeks of rum he was minded to buy a third one, but he shouldn’t, he needed all his wits.

In search of more information, he joined a card game being played for coppers only, as befitted his humble disguise, throwing about what he thought were idle questions to the group of sailors in a voice deliberately roughened and peppered with slang and curses. Antigua was mentioned again, but then an older man swore Bolton was hiding out in Cuba, then they fell to gleefully repeating bloody tales of Bolton’s doings. He needed specific information of the scumbag’s movements so they could ambush him, not a litany of horror. He would try to speak to some of the ladies of the house, without embroiling himself in trouble.

He jingled his pocket, now fatter from his winnings, and dealt himself out of the game to some grumblings and oaths at his luck. He slipped away, stopping a passing wench to request a third tankard, and found another quiet corner, sitting on a stool and stretching out, back to the wall, a perfect spot to survey the room and summon any woman who caught his dark gaze. He was so used to being dismissed by ladies of his class for his lack of name or wealth that he had never believed he was an attractive specimen, but Dany’s enthusiasm for his looks and prowess, and the muttering resentment of the pirates, was making him wonder. Sure enough, it was not long before a whore undulated towards him, elbowing one of her sisters out of the way so she could get to him first.

She had flaming red hair, which he had a weakness for, her pink corset so tight her bosom canted over its confines and displayed rouged nipples. She smelled of cheap scent and a tang of sweat, there were lines at the corners of her eyes, which were hard and calculating, but they softened when she drew closer. ‘What a pretty lad under all that muck,’ she said in a throaty voice. ‘Sitting there all quiet and watchful like a handsome black cat. What can I do for you this evening? I can do _everything_.’

He felt mostly unmoved by her cloying presence, despite the very distracting tits on display, but he sunk himself into his role as best he could, looking at her through a hooded eye and taking a sip of ale. ‘I am here to drink and hear the news, lass,’ he said, deliberately thickening his Northern accent. ‘Aye, a man gets right lonely out at sea, but I’m not sure I’m up for everything. A fine armful like you could persuade me though. Take a seat, I’ll buy you any drink I can afford if you tell me all the gossip.’

‘Black rum, a big one,’ she said pertly, and he waved an arm at a wench and snapped his order. The whore hovered until her drink was served, smoothing her transparent muslin skirts over her hips, a tongue flicking at her reddened lips as she edged closer. ‘I’m pretty good at persuading men to try the everything,’ she purred. ‘Care to go somewhere private? I will give you half off, because being rogered by you will be no hardship at all.’

To his discomfort, instead of taking a nearby stool, she settled in his lap, delicately sipping her rum and angling so her bosom was far too close to his face. He edged away as best he could, backed up against the wall, but he checked himself. Reaching into his pocket under her ample bottom, he grabbed a coin, flashing it at her. ‘A girl in your job knows some things, I expect,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll give you this florin and forgo the rest, if you tell me all you know about Ramsay Bolton.’

The tart sobered, her grey eyes now wary. ‘Dangerous talk,’ she said finally. ‘Why do you want to know about that evil pasty fucker?’

‘Perhaps I want to join him, I hear he’s been having rich pickings lately, and I’m a poor man,’ he replied, finishing his tankard with a gulp and dropping to the floor. She was heavy in his lap, and showed no sign of moving despite her uneasy mood.

‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ she snorted. ‘You’re pretending to be a rogue, and not doing a good job of it. It’s more likely you’re looking for him because you want to _end_ him.’ She smiled, a slow smile, her eyes lighting up with mischief, and downed her rum with a single gulp. ‘I will tell you all I know, because I hate that bastard and his gang, but I’m not moving from your lap. I’ve not been held by such a lovely fella in an age, and it looks less suspicious-like.’

He sighed heavily, resigned to the fact he had once again fallen into the hands of a stroppy female, and sent a silent prayer to the skies that his queen was nowhere near the tavern. ‘Very well, lass. Speak, and the florin is yours.’

***

She brooded as well as her lover was wont to do when she was unsettled, but was better at hiding it. Her companions saw nothing of what was going on beneath her disguise as they rode away from the priestess and her odd little hut overgrown with vines, the echo of her chants and mutterings in her ears. Before her seeing, the casting of the bones and burning of herbs to search for the Bolton lair, Mama Mel had relayed the news. Her father and brothers were dead of yellow fever, the slaves sold off and the plantation abandoned to the smothering jungle and the weathering of rain and wind. Her last wistful hope that one day she would return home from the struggles of her unconventional adult life and see her family once more was gone.

She was truly alone in the world, aside from a gaggle of devoted but unruly followers, a thousand freed slaves, and an ever-increasing price on her head. Such was her gloom all good things were quite absent from her churning thoughts; her dear friend Missandei, her beautiful island, her fearsome pets, and her grumpy yet ardent lover Jon Snow, who looked at her with liquid brown eyes full of love, often tinged with frustration which he vented in interesting ways. Lately that frustration was growing as they played a game of who would break and say it first.

She should be riding straight back to the Varys plantation to await the others, but instead she gravitated towards Jon like a weepy girl in need of a man to gather her up in his arms and shield her from the shit world she battled against. Likely she would find him embroiled in some manly mishap and in no mood to comfort her, but she rode hard regardless, leaving her men far behind her on the thin bridle path and likely baffled by her rash actions.

The beauty of the night did not touch her, the fragrance of flowers and fertile red earth, the tingling scent of the nearby ocean, the sprinkling of ice-white stars veiled by wisps of cloud, the smooth trot of her borrowed horse, his milky coat and flowing mane indicating he was the finest mount in the stables. She thought of her father, kindly but absent minded and subject to fits of melancholy, the handsome older brother who was her secret ally in her youthful transgressions, the younger brother who was petulant and bossy, but her blood nonetheless.

Ruined by her abduction, she had chosen a different life to that of a planter’s lady. She did not miss it, but she missed that sense of belonging, of home and family. She had never expected to make her own one day, so she scorned and pushed away any idea of it, to her detriment now that love had unexpectedly found her. She didn’t need the vulnerability of it, the raw need that went beyond the many ways to fuck. She was likely ruining her careful strategy to infiltrate and gain vital information, she should turn back from this folly and leave Jon to it, but she rode on until the jungle petered out and a glow of light and buzz of drunken noise greeted her.

After her horse was safely tethered in the cover of the trees and she advanced into the yard, her first sight was her old lover Daario pissing against a convenient wall, and she didn’t wait until he was finished to snap at him. ‘Where is Jon Snow?’

He took his time to shake his stumpy member off and stash it away, before turning to grin at her ominously. ‘Worry not my queen, he hasn’t started any fights this time, but the last I looked he was very preoccupied with one of the whores.’

It was a deliberate attempt to bait her, and to her disgust it worked. She bristled, and turned away from the malicious glint in his blue eyes to barrel through the open doors into the tavern, weaving through the crowd of sloshed men and scantily clad women, searching with a glower under her oversized hat. She spotted him, a bosomy ginger bitch in his lap, looking quite transfixed as she leaned in, generous tits in his face, whispering something in his ear. All rational thought left her in a flare of rage. She plucked a tankard out of the hand of a nearby roisterer and rushed forward, tossing it over his head.

‘Get off, trollop!’ she spat at the woman, who squeaked at the stream of ale that soaked them both, leaping off her lover’s lap at the words and wheeling around, bridling and ready for a scrap.

The tart took one look at her, utterly perplexed, and blurted at Jon. ‘A boy, a fucking jealous nancy boy. _That’s_ why you’re not interested!’

‘Leave us now, before I draw my blade,’ she growled, and the woman scuttled off smartly. She had no time to collect herself before her man stood up, his grip on her arm like an iron pincer. More sensible than she at this point, he merely glared with his one eye and began to march her outside, away from the amused gawkers, dragging her behind him like an errant child. She supressed the urge to yell at him until they were safely around the back of the tavern. ‘Unhand me, you bloody lecher!’

There was enough light from the standing torches that she could read his face clearly, shame and fury flaring in his angular features, a splash of bright red across both cheeks. He dropped her arm like it burnt him and strode away, his posture hunched as if dying to hit something. Instead he went to the pump in the centre of the courtyard, ripping the tie from his hair and the stupid patch, dunking his head under the gushing water to wash away the ale. Annoyed at the leaden silence she shrilled again, still hopping with absurd jealousy. ‘What the bloody hell were you doing with a whore in your lap?’

Jon rose, water streaming down his hair, dragging out the curls and making his rag of a shirt stick to him like glue, but she wasn’t distracted. She glared, her arms crossed under her bound up breasts, but instead of grovelling she got only sullenness. ‘I was doing my job, and it was part of the lady’s price for giving me her gossip,’ he said shortly. ‘I admit it looked bad, but you’re smarter than that. You know I don’t have eyes for anyone but you, and if you don’t, you bleeding well _should_.’

She huffed at this, tearing her gaze away. Hitting him would be easier than this, or stabbing him in a non-vital part. Her guts ached as if someone had given her a kick, the space between them was poisoned with all that was left unsaid. ‘What the devil are you doing breaking cover like that?’ he snapped at her. ‘You’re supposed to be the master criminal, and I the noble fool as you like to call me.’

Hard words, glib words, mocking laughter all bubbled in her chest and backed up in her throat, her usual response to his grumpiness, his probing, the longing looks he would give her when he thought she wasn’t watching. She should spit them out, shrug it off, and move on once tempers had cooled, keep it as it was, careless affection, comradeship, and ownership of each other’s bodies. But she was hurting, deep inside where that innocent girl still resided. Not by the trollop, but by the haunting loneliness that dragged her down tonight.

Knowing she would regret it instantly, she blurted it out regardless, the loudest words in her churning thoughts. ‘Because I’m in _love_ with you, noble fool, and I will kill the next woman who looks at you sideways!’

Thoroughly ashamed of herself, she turned to flee, but he caught her neatly, knocking her hat off in the struggle she put up, ripping off her cap to free her telltale hair for good measure before crashing his lips down on hers. She growled in her throat and bit his plump lips like a vixen, her struggles subsiding as the kiss deepened, travelling through her right to her toes. She was dimly aware of a rumble of thunder, fat drops of rain falling and bouncing off their entwined bodies and the beaten earth, but then she noticed nothing but his husky, unsteady voice against her panting mouth, his chocolate eyes only an inch away, fairly glowing with earnestness. ‘I love you, God help me but I love you Dany. I’ve been waiting so long for you to say it…oh love…’

Her eyes stung and welled dangerously, but she felt so ridiculously happy she was no longer tethered to the ground, likely to float away if he wasn’t holding her so close. She had read about it in books as a girl, and sighed over it. Later, when she became hardened to the world, she had scoffed at it. She now felt it in her bones, and it was like being sick with a delicious ague. So very unwise, but she surrendered to it, growing increasingly soaked from the downpour as she kissed him back. He wasn’t smug at besting her, he was grateful. She had given him this by yielding first, a tiny but significant victory, so she told him again, whispering it into his inky curls before finding his neck to mark it. ‘I love you, Jon Snow. Now find us a place out of this frigging rain so I can show you how much.’

He took her with him, held against his chest as if she was a swooning ninny as he nosed in doors around the compound, searching for a lock and a convenient pile of hay or pallet. Some of the rooms were occupied with chinks of light beneath the door and moans and groans coming from inside, indicating busy tarts, but he lucked on an empty one, depositing her carefully on the bed before searching for the tinderbox. She began to wriggle out of her wet clothes the minute the door was barred, the flaring oil lamps revealing a tiny but clean room with a washstand and narrow bed, shifts and bottles and other feminine items strewn about. Whatever whore the room belonged to, she would have to take her clients elsewhere tonight.

Rivulets of rain down his spectacular chest, his breeches clinging enough to reveal a sizeable bulge, she paused, transfixed as he kicked off his boots, dropped his sword belt and advanced towards her, clad only in her own breeches and a tight band of linen across her breasts to hide their shape. He reached for it to unravel her, but she slapped his hands away, going for his buttons to get him naked, struggling to get the wet moleskin down his thick thighs.

She kissed his rising cock, admiring its length and girth as always, and spun him around to grope his plump bottom, leaning in to nip it before raising an arm and slapping one cheek soundly. He jumped and swore, so she gave him another hard smack, her hand stinging from the blow. ‘The next time I find another woman in your lap, I’ll tie you up and spank your pretty arse until it’s bright red,’ she threatened, earning a dark chuckle before he turned about to grab her.

‘While the punishment sounds interesting, naughty wench, I promise you it will not happen again,’ he said solemnly, his ripe mouth twitching before he began to tug at the fabric hiding her modest bosom. She giggled in his grasp, not making it easy to divest her of the rest of her clothes, dropping kisses on every bit of him she could reach in the struggle.

Once her breasts were bare he suckled at them like he was starved of her for weeks instead of hours, his hair in her fist, her body bowed as she absorbed the pull of his bristly mouth. Breeches at half mast, she cursed and jiggled to get them off, rough palms smoothing over her flanks to help her, the black hue of his eyes, the slant of brows telling her he would have her on her back and her legs in the air in a heartbeat. ‘No you don’t,’ she breathed. ‘Get on the bed and lie still, I’m in charge here.’

It would be wise to slake themselves quickly and fade into the night before more talk was stirred up by their presence and actions, but her survival instinct was drowned out but her heedless desires, to touch him, plunder him, use him and be used herself, her beautiful captive, now thoroughly hers. Bare and hard and sticky with sweat, all musky and earthy and very male, she slithered up him, replacing her biting mouth with her cunt, straddling his face and bracing her hand on the plaster wall.

She was deluded, believing herself in control, she lost it at the first drag of his tongue across her nether lips to open her up, her thighs pinned to hold her still, the itch of whiskers as he took her in a mouthful, moaning appreciatively at the taste. She tried to move to gain friction where she wanted it, but was imprisoned, forced to endure the sweet anguish of being fucked with his clever tongue, then teased with feints and jabs around her clit, an ache in her womb as her cunt grew soaked and gaping, desperate to be filled with all he had to give her.

She laid her forehead against the wall and panted, fighting the bruising grip on her thighs. He was so sinfully good at this, she should have swallowed her pride and fear long ago and told him what was in her heart, not for the skill that few men possessed, but for the devotion. ‘Oh God, ooh Christ…so good love,’ she crooned. ‘Jon…’ Her babble turned to a cry, and she thrashed above him, desperate to escape before she came all over his face. He had her clit encircled, sucking it until it burned, two fingers plugged inside her emptiness, beckoning and pressing insistently against a magic place that sent her wild.

With one leg freed, she managed it, retreating with a hissing breath and flailing limbs, begging herself not to climax before she had him sheathed inside her. Downright clumsy, she shuffled downwards, sobbing in relief when she felt him rigid and hot against her cleft. Through her mess of hair, she saw him smouldering at her through falling lashes, his pillowy mouth pink and glistening. Finding her grace, she took him in hand, spread her shaking knees wide and sunk down on his cock, impaling herself and yelping at the abruptness.

He was thick and weighty inside her, filling every corner until she felt stretched too wide, her fingers and toes curling and the breath whooshing out of her lungs. At her heat, the close clasp of her muscles, he cursed filthily and snatched at her hips, settling her on his cock until his balls were felt between her cheeks. Spitting stray hair from her mouth then pushing it out of view, she moved in a slight twist to stir her insides, aloof and in charge once more, but it would not be long until she shattered into pieces, she could sense it building in her loins, inward pressure threatening escape by the intense tingling under her skin.

She braced herself with a hand over his heart, her hair a disordered veil that swung with every lift and fall. ‘I love you, my queen,’ he rasped at her. ‘Just like that, love. Ride me hard.’ She had never sought tenderness from him when he was buried her cunt, she never wanted it slow and sweet with soft touches and doe eyed gratitude, so she obeyed, using her knees to take him rough and deep, stirred and bruised, his deft hands guiding her and his fluid movements beneath, relentless thrusts upward from the mattress giving it a keener, crueller edge.

The shattering came too fast, her cries as loud and shameless as any whore in the establishment, but nothing was feigned. She tipped forward, smothering the noise in his waiting mouth, his fathomless eyes dragging her down, then creasing shut as he shuddered and spilled inside her, liquid heat which she contracted around to absorb every drop possessively. Fallow ground, but all his to fill again and again, until they were grey and old, or dead in some misadventure. As long as he was by her side and in her bed, she would never be standing alone on a rock in the middle of a stormy ocean, wondering where next to step.


	8. Chapter Eight

 

_A/N: Arrrr, me smutty hearties, some people may be missing this, so here’s an update. In this chapter, Jon and Dany make a bet doomed to fail, then attend a lavish ball on the island of Cuba to further their plot against Ramsay Bolton and his gang of scumbags. There is costume porn as well as actual porn, and more canon characters make an appearance. Enjoy everyone, comments mean more pirates. Fantastic and sultry moodboard provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

The tart’s room they had misappropriated had no window, but he could sense dawn was near by the chill that woke him from his ill-advised slumber and made him scrabble for a sheet to cover himself and his naked lady. As he jostled her, Dany mumbled and stirred and she turned her bright, knotty head to lay a kiss on his cheek, her lids fluttering to reveal eyes that were as blue and warm as a deep hole in the reef at home.

She stared at him at length, as soft as he ever saw her, not springing to alertness just yet. It was a very pleasant glow in the centre of his chest, the satisfaction of hearing her say it first and surrender rather than hitting him in the balls and running off as expected. He bent and nosed at her, speaking in a scratchy voice. ‘What are you thinking?’

Her long dark lashes veiled her gaze suddenly, her mouth twitching with her usual mischief. ‘I was thinking what a beautiful, big cock you have.’

He wasn’t fooled by her bawdy response, he nosed at her again, catching her lips in a kiss. ‘I suspect you were thinking about how much you love me,’ he purred. ‘So much you blew your cover, caused a scene and then stayed abed with me instead of making a quick exit.’

She laughed and then bit his lower lip, her eyes opening again, bold and sparkling like sun on the water. ‘You have me there, Jon Snow,’ she said ruefully. ‘I do love you, and I’ve made an idiot of myself over it. We’d best get dressed and leave before the sun rises.’ To his regret, she slipped out of the crook of his arm and stood, stretching out her kinks in an elegant arch, a lovely view of her shapely arse as she turned and went to the washstand.

She combed out her matted hair with her fingers, and he noted the trickle of his seed down her thigh before she dipped a cloth in the basin to cleanse himself. He sat up, experiencing a qualm of guilt at the sight of his mess. He had spilled inside her so many times without thinking of it, because she had said candidly and without emotion that she was barren, but he wasn’t so sure of that. And now she had spoken her heart and he had done the same he felt obliged to ask, though likely she would just laugh at him.

Feeling he should at least have his breeches on before bending the knee to her, he fished for his clothes and donned them, watching her finish at the basin and do the same, the words in his throat all tangled up and clumsy. ‘I feel I should make an honest woman of you at last,’ he said gruffly when they were both dressed, Dany again fiddling with the ruin of her hair in the cheap mirror. She turned and widened her gaze at him, splashes of pink on her cheekbones, her mouth quirking.

‘In case you haven’t noticed, I am not an honest woman but a master criminal, as you called me,’ she said flippantly, the surprised look in her face shuttering.

He forgot about kneeling and blurted it while his courage was up, watching her jaw tighten as he approached, but she was still blushing. ‘I want to marry you,’ he said softly. ‘I want to make you my lady in truth.’ He took her hands in his and bent over them like a swain in a country garden, rather than a reprobate pirate hiding out in a whorehouse. She gave a giggle that was almost nervous, but her quick tongue was dismissive.

‘And who would marry us and make it official? What would be the point of it? I am yours, and you are definitely mine, I don’t need a ring or a mumbling priest to confirm it.’ She slipped her hands free and left him, snatching her boots from the floor and sitting down on the bed to yank them on, hiding from him. He began to get annoyed.

‘The point is that a man of honour should marry the woman he loves, and protect and provide for her, instead of dallying between her thighs and using her like a whore with no thought of the future,’ he said huffily. ‘If you do love me as you say, then you shouldn’t be afraid of the prospect of being mine forever, and not just until you’re bored with me and decide to have me tossed overboard.’

She bristled at this, looking up through her swinging silver hair, weary and exasperated with a glint of fondness. ‘I will never, _ever_ get bored of you. I never want you out of my bed or my sight, you damn puffed up idiot,’ she said acerbically, standing up in a rush to grab his face and kiss him hard. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to worry about my bloody honour and marry me. I’m already besmirched and I don’t care.’

His pride was a prickly beast, he had nothing to offer her, no gold, no home, no safety, just himself, struggling to exist in her world and stand on his own feet. He shrugged her off abruptly, not willing to be beguiled by her touch as usual. He spoke on impulse, using the only card he had to play to make her rethink. ‘I think you do care,’ he said, watching her eyes flare. ‘I know I do. I care about your honour, and mine. That is why I will not lie with you, make love to you, or fuck you, whatever you name it, until you come to me and tell me you’ve changed your mind.’

She laughed in his face, not nastily but bubbling with mirth, and he was relieved to see his foolish vow had not riled her. But she was just as stubborn as he, and he already knew he was going to regret every word when her chin tilted and she eyed him, considering. ‘If you wish to make a bet, Lord Commander, I will play. I bet you will not last more than a week without throwing me on my back or hand and knees and taking me. Your vow is sweet, but it’s unnecessary.’ She reached and patted his cheek tenderly, but her eyes danced with challenge. ‘I am sure I can hold out much longer than you can.’

Before he could take it back, or accept her challenge with a silent glower, there was an impatient rapping at the door. Her hand reached for her long knife on her belt, his own hand loosened Longclaw from its sheath. The voice that followed was quiet and acerbic, with the rounded tones of an aristocrat far from home. ‘If you will kindly unbar the door and let me in, and explain why my best employee is covered in ale and in a vile mood and locked out of her room, and _why_ there is a pile of men passed out on the floor of my tavern, that would be _most_ appreciated.’

Dany shrugged and moved to the door, knife held behind her back as he followed and lifted the bar. The door swung open to reveal a night sky fading to purple streaked with clouds, and a dwarf, bearded and rather well dressed, looking up at them through a furrowed brow. The proprietor he assumed, they would either have to threaten him or buy his silence.

As he stepped aside the smaller man shuffled in, bowing his head at the sight of Dany. She relaxed her stance a little, but he didn’t sheath his sword just yet. ‘Tyrion Lannister,’ she said. ‘I apologise for any inconvenience caused by our visit, but we thought it best to stay incognito.’

‘You haven’t done a very good job of it, Pirate Queen,’ he said dryly. ‘You best be out of here before the Navy patrol pays its weekly visit for ale and women, which is every Tuesday. My customers will be talking about that little fracas last night, and I will have a hard job keeping my ladies from gossiping.’ His cunning green eyes switched to him, and he snorted. ‘This is a new acquisition,’ he observed. ‘Could it be the Navy Commander who went missing after an attack at sea? They are looking for him most earnestly.’ Hands on hips, he studied him. ‘Very handsome, very distinctive,’ he tutted. ‘But you have been alone for too long, my dear queen, so I don’t judge you.’

Clearly his lover knew the man somewhat, as she was completely relaxed now, her knife put away, smiling slightly. ‘We will pay for our visit and to help silence your staff,’ she said lightly. ‘My companion came here in search of information pertaining to Ramsay Bolton. I would very much like to find him and kill him and all his men.’

The dwarf shot her a wary look, but sat on the edge of the bed, quite at ease. ‘And you think you can do a better job of finding him and wiping out his gang than His Majesty’s Navy,’ he said wryly. ‘You probably can, but what you are proposing is dangerous. You risk much coming here looking for information. There would be many that would spill their guts to Bolton just to curry favour, or save their worthless hides from being flayed alive.’

‘We were never here, you never saw us, and you’re clever enough to devise some story about the pretty sailor and his jealous nancy boy having a scrap in your tavern,’ she said firmly, reaching into her pocket and drawing out a bag of coins. ‘It’s just another night in your famous establishment.’ Tyrion raised his hand to deny the offered gold, and Dany smiled at him sweetly. ‘My undercover man and the voodoo witch say Ramsay is hiding out on Cuba. Is it true?’

‘So I have heard from several sources,’ Tyrion said cautiously. ‘But you will need more than your gang and your freedmen to attack his compound and kill him. The Spaniards have been tolerating his presence for the bribes he pays the more corrupt officials, but I do have one contact outside Havana who is a rogue in the mould of ourselves who _may_ be willing to help you.’

‘Help us how?’ he butted in, knowing by his stroppy love’s alert look they would likely be following this lead, rather than going home to Dragonstone to rest and work on his persuasion skills. ‘Information, or fighting with us? How can we trust this contact of yours?’

‘Signor Martell is entirely untrustworthy,’ Tyrion said blandly. ‘But he greatly appreciates a beautiful face and figure, and he does have a streak of nobility, and loves a good fight. It happens he is hosting a ball in a week’s time. I shall give you an entrée. Make yourself presentable, charm him, appeal to his better nature, and perhaps he will help you, Lord Snow.’ His smile was a leer, making Dany’s lips twitch and his own poise stiffen. ‘I know he will appreciate _both of you_ very much.’

***

She knew the man who wished to marry her was as stubborn as a rock when he was minded to be, and the last week had proven it so. Jon told her over and over that he loved her, dandled her in his lap and drove her utterly mad with a dozen or more kisses and light touches over her breasts and belly and flanks when they were alone. He slept beside her in the big bed at the Varys Plantation and later on the ship, more often than not as hard as iron, his tempting cock pressed against her bottom but not put to good use.

The silly, besotted fool even brought her flowers, raiding the garden to woo her with a riot of tropical blooms that she pretended to yawn over and then later put in a vase to admire. He beguiled her with a hundred smouldering looks, a store of awkward but pretty words, made her laugh in his subtle way despite the building tension of their upcoming dread mission. So handsome, so charming, so bloody obdurate. In her secret self, she was beginning to waver, wondering what the harm would be in just giving in so he could savour his triumph and then fuck her to banish the constant ache in her parts, but she was also a stubborn wench.

Varys was a master at finding things, rare items as well as useful information to help evade the authorities and vanquish foes. Like a fairy godmother from a tale, before leaving for Cuba he outfitted them in court clothes from French neighbours who had once attended Versailles, a little outmoded but suitable for attending a ball in the colonies. The temptation of saying yes to Jon Snow was now a thousand times worse, her eyes constantly flicking to him as they dressed in the stuffy guesthouse in Havana, then took a hired carriage to the Martell hacienda through the fragrant night.

It appeared he had the same problem, hooded eyes drifting over her exposed bosom and tiny, clinched in waist, the spread of pink silk skirts that filled the opposite carriage seat, tongue and teeth worrying at his lower lip until it was reddened and swollen and very kissable. She could sense it, a tether slung between their bodies coiling tighter and tighter, drawing them closer together though she pretended to ignore him, keeping her gaze on the open window, a view of monotonous rows of sugar cane and straggling shacks as they passed by.

God help her tonight, he was so handsome in that blue velvet coat and tight white breeches, curly hair tied back in a bow, black as a raven’s wing as he had refused to powder it like she had. Her fingers twitched in her lap, itching to mess him up, she felt swollen and damp between her thighs and pressing them together brought little relief. Her highly distracted mind tried to think of business, the slippery Spaniard they hoped to charm into helping them bring fire and blood to the worst scumbag on the Seven Seas, but it was exceedingly difficult.

The receiving line at the hacienda was a ribbon of bright fabrics and perfectly dressed hair, a polyglot mingling of languages and faces that wound through the front garden of a low white building with wrought iron shutters, airy and beautiful and lit within and without, speaking of wealth and taste. A renegade priest who had defected from the church, acquired wealth by dubious means and many adoring women, Signor Martell lived gleefully in sin with his favourite paramour and a half-dozen bastard daughters, a stain on staid Cuban society who nevertheless threw wonderful parties that people fought to attend.

There was a knife at her back, another strapped to her thigh, but she floated down the path in her kid slippers, hand tucked in Jon’s arm, poised and frilly and deceptively ladylike. As always, convention had to be followed and Missandei and Grey Worm were sent to the servant’s gathering around the back of the palace, to mingle and pick up gossip and act as back-up if needed.

‘Lord and Lady Stark of Winterfell Hall,’ the butler called out in both Spanish and English as they reached the foot of the steps, and she heard her swain choke back a laugh.

‘What is so amusing?’ she murmured as they ignored the rustle of interest from the other guests and walked inside, shivering when he bent to whisper in her ear in his low, smooth voice.

‘I was thinking my stepmother and sister would have an attack of the vapours if they knew of our false names,’ he imparted. ‘Old Nan would have to get out the smelling salts. The “half brother”, the “bastard” or the “family shame” they used to call me when Father wasn’t around.’

She tapped her fan on his hand gently and smiled up at him with a hint of ire. ‘I don’t think I would like your family. They would certainly not like me.’

His face settled to its usual brooding expression, then his mouth curled at a corner fetchingly. ‘Maybe not those two, but my brothers would, and Arya. Arya would like you very much. She’s a little rebel herself. She’s probably stolen Bran’s clothes and run away by now to join the navy.’ At his sigh, she scooted closer to him for reassurance, a mistake as he smelled as good as he looked, some cologne of tobacco and sandalwood. She blinked at the pang of lust in her belly, then tore her gaze away to survey the room carefully. Fat planters and dolled up wives, a gaggle of spiteful looking young girls in the corner, hovering servants with trays of champagne, and a smattering of more interesting folk with wary faces and lithe bodies of fighters.

Jon knew no Spanish, but she had a little, and as they took glasses and moved into the crowd she listened hard to the idle talk, searching for any mention of their quarry. She didn’t dare to eat before Missandei squeezed her into her corset, so the champagne went straight to her head, blooming on her cheeks. Jon was watchful, not moving far from her side. Their cover story was flimsy, so it was best to remain distant and intriguing, and not get too drunk.

Her hair had been powdered as white as bone, her billowy gown hid the healing scar on her arm, the black velvet choker his faded marks on her throat. She simpered and acted like a ninny, flicking her fan and attracting lusty or jealous attention with her spilling breasts and fine attire and even finer companion. Women took one look at Jon and cut their eyes at her while their husbands ogled her tits, and the tittering girls whispered and gave her bitchy looks that made her smirk proprietarily. If anyone suspected her of being anything other than an empty-headed lady, then they were mighty suspicious.

There was no sign of their host, and rather than be dragged into further nosey questions she gravitated towards the ballroom, where wild Spanish music played instead of the conventional string quartet. The locals leapt and swung enthusiastically while the British guests stood around awkwardly and drank, and as she felt her toes itch she nudged her aloof companion, who had managed to acquire a big snifter of rum. ‘Shall we dance to fit in?’

‘I don’t dance,’ Jon said sheepishly. ‘Never was any good at it.’

‘Bollocks,’ she said, raising a brow, then leaned in and purred into his neck. ‘The way you fight and fuck, you must be a natural. Don’t be so stuffy. Aren’t you trying to charm me?’

He looked cornered, his big doe eyes flicking uneasily to the fluid, energetic dancers, many of whom seemed to be passionately entwined. She smiled up at him and moulded herself into his body, a quick nip over his pulse to remind him what he was missing. ‘This is going to be bloody awful,’ he grumbled, abandoning his glass and swinging her out onto the floor. She laughed, it _was_ awful, neither of them had any idea what they were doing and he looked mortified, but he kept smiling whenever she erupted in giggles.

She was supposed have her guard up, but she always enjoyed pretending to be something she wasn’t, and she was a quick learner, watching other couples and goading Jon to copy the moves until there was less tripping and stepping on toes. They were attracting attention again, the stupid coterie of girls, a few disapproving matrons, and a man closing in, as quick and lethal as a snake with black hair, a thin moustache and a coat of saffron silk.

He smiled at her in a predatory manner, hand on his rapier, and darted forward. ‘Do you mind if I cut in and show your lovely lady how it’s done?’ he drawled at Jon, voice lightly accented, and ignoring his forbidding scowl the Spaniard snatched her out of his arms and wheeled her away before she could protest.

She blinked and composed her face, finding herself under careful study as he moved her deftly to the edge of the floor where it was less raucous. Fortunately, the music slowed to a more sedate tune, but unfortunately this meant she was pulled into an embrace. He smelt of spice and rum, and once she would have found him attractive indeed, but now she was only interested in his help. ‘Signor Oberyn Martell, I presume,’ she said coolly.

He smirked broadly at her. ‘I am a lucky man this night, to have the most dangerous woman in the Caribbean in my arms. I had to agree to meet you, just for the wonderful privilege.’

‘I am only dangerous to slavers and rapists and bastards who cross me,’ she said sweetly. ‘Otherwise I am quite harmless.’

He gave her a sardonic look and spun her away, dipping her backwards expertly before drawing her back in. She risked a look around for Jon, only to find him surrounded by the bloody girls, all fluttering fans and eyelashes. To his credit, he looked highly discomforted, but her annoyance was not missed by her dance partner. ‘They’re no threat to you, Queen of the Seas,’ he drawled. ‘We call them Las Nonsas. I assure you they’ll bore him to death in five minutes. No brains, no charm, and they wouldn’t know what to do with a naked man, whereas I am sure _you_ do.’

‘I am here to talk business, not worry about a flock of stupid hens,’ she shrugged, inching back in his arms. She was sure she could feel something digging into her stomach that wasn’t a weapon.

At her angry snort, he clicked his tongue, casting Jon another look. ‘He arse does look rather spectacular in those breeches. Are you quite attached to him? I wouldn’t mind entertaining you both after we talk this business.’

Nothing shocked her usually, but she felt her cheeks get hotter, and she smothered a strangled laugh at the thought of what her lover would say at such a proposition. ‘Both of us are quite…territorial,’ she said, baring her teeth in a tight smile. ‘While I am flattered, Signor, I am more interested in appealing to your love of a good fight, than sharing my man with you.’

He gave a deep sigh of regret and spun her away again, dipping her in an arch that nearly bent her to the floor. ‘Such a pity,’ he said. ‘My Ellaria would enjoy the both of you as well. Look there she is, scattering your hens.’ She looked over to find the girls edging away as a tall, elegant woman in a gown of burnt orange swept them aside, her smile lusty and menacing as she backed Jon into a corner. She felt herself bristle like a vexed cat, the same irrational fury she’d vented at the tavern as she watched the woman draw him into a dance he claimed to be bloody useless at.

She felt a hand pet her back with familiarity. ‘Ahh, both of you are a delight, trying so hard to do good in this world but yet so very distracted by each other. I feel it in my cynical heart,’ Oberyn said warmly, lifting one of her hands to kiss it as she struggled to wipe off her scowl. ‘I wonder which one of you will break first and sweep the other off to stake your claim?’

‘This business I have come for,’ she said stubbornly, removing her hand from his grasp and stepping back, continuing the dance from a more modest distance, tired of him toying with her, and very tired of her eyes skittering to the far side of the room to catch Jon glowering at her dangerously even as Ellaria tried to distract him with her sinewy beauty. ‘If you will grant me an hour of your time in the morning to discuss?’

‘What is my incentive?’ Oberyn said lazily, his damn hands sliding down her corseted back, far too close to her arse, and to where her trusty knife was secured. ‘You won’t offer yourself, or your lover. I have no need for gold, or attention from the authorities, or more enemies.’

She flashed her eyes at him, seeing the cynical lines on his face, the onyx glitter of his eyes as he studied her. ‘Nothing, except perhaps the desire for glory, and to do some good, and a share of the spoils. You hate slavers, you hate the authorities, and I suspect it has been awhile since you gutted some scumbags who deserve it. So, I ask you Signor, why the hell not?’

***

He had been primed like a pistol and if he didn’t find her soon he was going to go off. After extricating himself from the very tall, very intimidating lady who had rescued him from the vapid gang of girls, he found Dany gone, and ominously, her partner was gone from the dancefloor as well. Trying not to suspect the worst, the ache in his balls from his queen’s bedevilment and fairylike beauty tonight adding to his aggravation, he began to prowl the palace, exchanging terse niceties with other guests as he hunted Dany down.

If it wasn’t for the need to make an alliance, he would have called out that slimy sod Martell for putting his hands all over his woman and whispering suggestively enough to make her blush crimson, which she rarely did. She looked so small and soft in the Spaniard’s arms, following his fancy moves with light feet, that all he wanted was to steal her away, find a quiet corner and remind her who she belonged to, without losing that ridiculous wager.

He knew it was hard for her to show weakness, and she had taken a big step in admitting that she loved him, but his honour and pride were stung by her laughing off his proposal as a formality she didn’t need. He was determined to hold out, but damn it all it was very hard, especially the mood he was in at present. A good fight would vent some of his painful frustration, but it was unwise, especially challenging their host to a duel for the amusement of the guests, his first preference.

The hacienda was deceptively large, as he wound his way into the back of the building servants and guests thinned out, and when he reached a dimly lit hall he saw Dany pop out of a doorway. She froze when she saw him stalking towards her, gave him a wicked lure of a smile, picked up her skirts, and took off at a run. Cursing he pursued her, his silly dandy shoes clicking against the marble, a soft giggle and a squeak when he cornered her and swept her up.

He wanted to huff at her, he wanted to shake her, but of course he ended up crushing her close and kissing her, biting and mauling and making her moan and struggle against his chest. He was instantly erect, her familiar scent of frangipani and musk, the heat of her mouth, her beautiful tits bulging from her corset and into his groping hands. ‘Where were you?’ he growled into her lips, eyeing her with suspicion, but her gaze was dark with need for him, not a hint of guilt over any falseness.

‘I went to check on Grey Worm and Missandei, you silly oaf,’ she breathed. ‘Did you honestly think I’d run off with that voluptuary when I have my own? Not that you’ve been much use lately, but I remember the good days quite fondly.’

At this jibe, he slammed her against the wall, caging her with his arms, giving her the length of him, painful bulge and all, rutting against her skirts and not giving a shit he was crushing the silk. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat with a happy sigh. ‘Are you giving in, Jon Snow?’

‘No I’m not,’ he murmured stubbornly, nipping her fluttering pulse above her choker. ‘I intend to drive you mad for a bit until you’re forced to say yes.’

She snorted at him, a flare of annoyance in her blue depths, then slithered out his grasp in a rustle of skirts, taking his hand and towing him behind her. ‘I know of a place where we can test your willpower.’ They passed a servant with a tray of rum cocktails, and she snatched one up, drinking as she went, and a few more twists and turns and they were in a flowery boudoir furnished with a chaise, a massive wardrobe and a dressing table lit by lamps. Some fine lady’s room, but there was a lock on the door and a horizontal surface, that was all he cared about at this point.

He confiscated her drink, finished the rest, and grabbed her, scooping her breasts out of her gown as he walked her backwards towards the chaise. Her eyes had glints of gold in them from the lamplight, deep and compelling, her voice low and drugging, arms linked around his neck. ‘Do try not to mess me up so I can’t walk out of here, pretty lad.’

He wanted to tear her gown to shreds and fuck her so hard he would have to carry her out to the carriage, but he could control himself. He tipped her back on the chaise, clenching his fists until the tendons in his arms popped when he watched her inch up her hems, revealing stockings, her knife holster, then finally her bare cunt, the wispy silver curls freshly trimmed back. He knew exactly how to test her while testing himself, closing his eyes to the sight of her laid out in a froth of silk and lace, her nipples hard and dark as berries, her gasps and little cries increasing in volume as he dropped to the floor and bent his head to his task.

Her hands were in his hair, ripping it loose from the ribbon tie, trying to bring him closer to increase the friction. The taste of her was salt and sweet and molten, using both hands to pin her down, he could only endure the dull throb in his trapped cock, so hard he was likely to burst from the infernally tight breeches. He concentrated fiercely on teasing her, just the tip of his tongue tracing her folds, circling her clit, dipping within and retreating. He could feel her tense up beneath him as he drove her very slowly, heedless of the risk of discovery in the borrowed room, enjoying her noises and the way her creamy thighs twitched at each flick of his tongue.

The scent of her arousal and the heat of her was getting to him, he was struggling to breathe, the griping in his balls becoming unbearable. Although he had no intention of taking her he loosened the stock around his throat, struggled with his sword belt, a flash of memory of her trussed up by its length and tied fast to a bed making him groan hoarsely. With her thighs now free, she clamped them around his head and ground against his face, and he knew he was fucked if he didn’t back off right now.

He wrenched away, wiping his beard with the back of his hand, deliberately not looking at her all pink and spread open. ‘Oh God, you cad,’ she whined through a mouthful of unravelling whitened hair. ‘Stop being so stubborn and make me come.’

‘Not until you reconsider my proposal,’ he growled, deliberately smouldering at her through his lashes, licking her lips. She looked like she wanted to hit him, flushed and shaky, her eyes midnight blue and narrowed, but then she sat up in a rush and hooked her hands into the waistband of his breeches, dragging him in, her fingers plucking at the buttons before he could back away.

‘My turn then,’ she said bossily, and she had his cock out and sliding between her lips as quick as thought. He went completely still, clenching his flailing hands, trying to think of something dull or revolting ugly to counter the shocking pleasure of it, a close draw of cheeks, warm, wet tongue, the back of her throat kissing the tip as she swallowed him whole. She was getting very good at serving him, too good to resist.

To make it worse, she cupped his balls in her palm, tugging and rolling gently as she moved her mouth over him, and he felt the warning surge up his spine, a tightening in his loins. The animal in him took over, forgetting his vow in the desperate need to grab her hair, lunge into her throat and come and come until it dribbled from her stretched lips, but before he could twine her hair in his fists to finish it she let him loose with a wet pop, smirking and wiping her mouth with her thumb and then moving as if to get up and right herself. ‘Since you won’t yield, I better stop there.’

‘Fuck!’ he snarled at her, letting go his pride. He seized her by her shoulders, earning himself a few punches and a kick in the shin, then a very pleased moan as he flipped her around, arm behind her back, skirts bunched to her waist and arse in the air as he pushed her back down on the chaise, and not caring a whit he had failed he was in her, finding his mark and sinking balls deep with a strangled sound.

She was tight and silky and indulgent, taking all he had in long, deep, satisfying strokes, whining and crying and feigning struggles as if she was being ravished. It was playacting that roused him mightily and made him work harder, holding her down with an arm across her spine to bend her in the perfect position to receive each blow, her hands gripping the rolled arm of the chaise to brace herself, resisting him as he withdrew and forced himself deep again. She grew so wet she sucked and pulled at him with slick sounds, so hot she burned him alive, her hair and gown a ruin but as pretty as a picture to him, the knife strapped to her thigh, the disarrayed skirts, her cunt glistening with dew and closing around him like the sweetest of snares.

He reached beneath her as he felt the tingling rush through his veins turn to a roar, hunching over her to thrust rapidly as he worked her clit mercilessly, catching it and pinching it until she lifted her head and howled like a banshee, clamping down around his cock so tightly he erupted without warning. The long-awaited explosion had him moaning helplessly, draining him of all his ill humour as he spilled against her womb, the ripples of her violent release drawing out the dregs until he was felled, messing her up even more as he smothered her with his weight.

His heart thudded, sweat dripped from his brow and under his layers of shirt and waistcoat and velvet coat, his mind an empty bubble, no chagrin yet haunting him for giving in to her wiles so easily, but it would come soon enough. He was still her prisoner, chained by love and lust and intrigue to her side. He didn’t want his old life back, not at all, but she still felt like an elusive goddess to him. A mermaid on a rock luring him to wreck himself, forget himself.

As that fact began to niggle, he went to climb off her still form, withdrawing from her addictive clasp, but a hand fluttered to stop him, petting the sleeve of his coat. ‘Yes,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘I say yes.’

He froze, pushing a sheaf of hair away from her profile, one languid eye opening to look up at him fondly. ‘Yes what, my queen?’ he said hesitantly, and her swollen mouth curled.

‘Yes, Jon Snow, a thousand times yes. Make an honest woman of me.’


End file.
